


Like Sand through the Glass

by Eumenides



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cullen is only a handy prop for chapter 1 don't worry Lavellan only has eyes for Solas promise, Dreams, Eluvians, Elven Glory, F/M, Feels, First Time, Flashbacks, Hopeful Ending, No Trespasser Spoilers, Peeping, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Self-Discovery, Slow Build, Snogging, Spirits, Suggestive Themes, Sweet/Sad Solas, The Fade, Time Travel, Travel to Near Past, Wolf Hunt, obscure codex references, time magic still works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 20:30:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3991744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eumenides/pseuds/Eumenides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Lavellan sacrificed much to her struggle against Corypheus—her clan, her heart, her very self. With the threat thwarted and peace restored, she embarks on a solitary journey through time and space to reclaim some of what she has lost, to find her hiding heart and unravel <i>his </i> well-guarded secrets.<br/>-excerpt-<br/>The blue light of the moon filtered through the clouds and fog, painting her love a new shade. Her skin goose-pimpled in response to each of his feather touches on her hands, her face, her lips, the most sacred spaces in her body's temple. His generous kisses fell gently like silver and gold into a beggar’s cup, and she, being poor, could only languidly collect these tender tokens offered without promises made, kept, or broken.<br/>---</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Libation Bearer (prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written before Trespasser was released, so it reflects my own incorrect theory about what was going on with Solas. I don't get into the theory that much as this piece is primarily about the feelings between Lavellan and Solas rather than terribly elfy things. It's not too long, heavy on the pretty language, and ends sweetly, so I think it's still worth a read for Solas lovers. ;)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan turns to drink to ease her pain, and Cullen's office is in close proximity to her favorite watering hole.

 "Tell me Offissser, uhh, Captain"—large golden brown eyes blinked widely in a failed attempted to feign some semblance of sobriety—"Messser Curly!" A pale hand raised the amber bottle to the elf's glistening lips. "Are you whi-hith anyb-body?"

 Inquisitor Lavellan leaned lazily against the stone threshold and took a long pull of the Starkhaven whiskey the bottle making an all together inappropriate pop as she withdrew it from her pink lips. A thin stream of the liquid ran down her slightly dimpled chin and onto the beige silk of her uniform.

 Cullen looked away from his work to regard the wrecked woman hiccuping in his doorway then beyond her to the light pouring into the night from the open door of the rotunda. "Not this again," he muttered under his breath pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand and replacing his quill in its ink well with the other.

 "Inquisitor, do you need a hand back to your quarters?" he sighed as he made to stand pushing his chair away from his desk.

 Lavellan lowered the bottle, tipping it too far on its side absent-mindedly spilling liquor on the floor. Momentarily she wore an expression of confusion before grinning broadly and poorly winking one of her puffy lidded eyes.

 "Was that a p-proposition"—she pushed off from the wall—"Professssor Cull-llen?" Lavellan lurched toward the Commander, but her legs did not cooperate. Cullen did not make it to her side before both Inquisitor and bottle were broken on the cold ground. He rested a hand on her shoulder and offered another to help her up.

 "Well, shhhhit," she slurred examining her ruined suede boots. The elf's eyes moved from the shards on the floor to the large human hand before her. Her brow creased and then tears came in slow, silent sobs. Without a word the commander pulled Lavellan to her feet inspecting her for cuts brushing a few shards from her snot and tear stained sleeve.

 "It's all right Inquisitor," he offered awkwardly patting the woman's back and silently cursing the apostate who had left her this husk of her former self. "Let's get you to your rooms." Lavellan simply nodded in reply.

 It would have been easier to take the bridge from his office toward the rotunda, but Cullen knew better. So, they took the long way—the elf's slight, shuddering figure slumping against the human with each wobbly step. The late hour provided the privacy of darkness, and certainly the discretion of the few night guardsmen and scullery maids who chanced to catch sight of their Worship's walk of shame was above question. Several flights of stairs and many tears later the pair arrived at their destination.

 "Shall I fetch Josephine to see to your uh—or can you manage on your own?" Cullen eased Lavellan onto the divan nearest the stairs. Lavellan wiped her face with her sleeve and squinted against the brightness of the fire the steward had lit in anticipation of her return.

 "You're leaving? But"—she covered her mouth as if she was about to be sick then hiccuped—"I thought that you..."

 Cullen stood before her anxious to get out of the Herald of Andraste's bedroom and back to his paperwork. He shifted his weight from one foot then to the other uncertain of what to say or if it even mattered considering the Inquisitor's state. He took too long in his deliberations. Lavellan glared up at him, rage tattooed across her bare face.

 "You—you think I'm ugly. Is that it? Or perhaps my ears are just too sharp for you—you SHHHEM!" She had paused before spitting out that one last word almost as if it were an after thought.

 "Inquisitor, your ears are"—Cullen sighed and turned toward the exit rubbing the creases in his forehead before continuing in exasperation—"delightful. It is late, you are painfully the worse for drink, and, honestly, I'm not keen on being anyone's consolation prize." His patience was worn far too thin.

 Lavellan pulled her legs up onto the divan and frowned to herself, suddenly calm. "Yes, that is what you'd b-be, isn't it?" She yawned and flopped her head onto a pillow sending bits of down into air like specters in the night. Cullen just stared at the illuminated landing, his exit, at the bottom of the shadowed steps.

 "Ir abelas," she nearly whispered as hot tears slipped from her closed eyes adhering the tiny white feathers to her flushed cheeks. "Ir isala ma vhenan."

 "Right...Goodnight Inquisitor." Cullen didn't look back before descending the stairs and carefully closing the heavy door behind him.

 

* * *

 A silvery veil of mist hovered over the dark pool; it's cool effervescence stung the insides of her nostrils as gentle ripples in the fade left her skin tingling. The blue light of the moon filtered through the clouds and fog, painting her love a new shade. Her skin goose-pimpled in response to each of his feather touches on her hands, her face, her lips, the most sacred spaces in her body's temple. His generous kisses fell gently like silver and gold into a beggar’s cup, and she, being poor, could only languidly collect these tender tokens offered without promises made, kept, or broken. _They_ were too real.

 Slowly the cloak of his warmth pulled away leaving her breathless and chilled. Through the distance between them she looked into the empty grey of his eyes overflowing with her. Thedas disappeared into the muted trickling of water falling into water and leaves rustling somewhere. His lips moved, but she didn't hear the somber words which passed through them. She only looked on as he carelessly poured her out of his eyes and released her frozen fingers. And then he was leaving her, backing away like a subject afraid of offending the crown before finally turning his back on her.

 “Wait!” she had meant to shriek after him, to run and cling to the familiar fabric of his shirt, but no sound came and her body remained frozen in time. She only stood in isolation at the end of the world as he skulked away.

 Then just as the gathering mist threatened to swallow her heart she turned and called out to his disappearing figure in a foreign voice barely above a whisper. “Solas.”

 He stopped.

 “I want you to know. I'm not missing you yet,” she lied with the sweet taste of his saliva still on her tongue.

 He didn't turn only flatly replied, “You will, vhenan,” and disappeared into the dark beyond.

 It wasn't right. It wasn't real. “That's not what you said,” she struggled to say through sleeping lips, lucidity once more shattering the familiar illusion.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bit  
> Ir isala ma vhenan- I'm in need of my heart.
> 
>    
> I'm trying to get back into writing prose after an insanely long break. My long neglected goal is to write a novel; this novella length fanfic seemed like a good exercise to start with. 
> 
> The first two chapters are a little short, in retrospect, and may seem a slow set-up. In Chapter Three the ball will get rolling, and hopefully you'll get the idea of where or rather when this is headed. Generally expect a slower pace. This is a very focused story. There will be no "meanwhile back at the ranch" moments—no side plots involving non-essential characters. The first several chapters will be Lavellan centered while the last several will be Solas and Lavellan centered. 
> 
> I'm sorry if that is a long wait for people looking for elven glory. I'm firmly in the "they didn't" camp. Given where the game left us it'll take quite a few chapters to work up to the point where that's even possible. Please note, however, that this is not an asexual pairing hence the M rating. 
> 
> I threw in a nod to The English Patient in chapter 1. Brownie points if you can spot it. I love that book/movie.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Feedback, especially constructive criticism or general writing tips, would be fabulous! 
> 
>  
> 
> * Dragon Age is property of Bioware, of course. Don't mind my insane ramblings.


	2. The Wind in the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan awakes from her dream to find Inquisition business and an unusual gift waiting for her.

 “Inquisitor. Inquisitor.”

 Josephine's gentle voice cut through the roar as the world came back from oblivion. Blinding light poured in from every damnable window in the tower chamber. Lavellan quickly drew a protective arm arm over her eyes.

 “Please leave me alone,” the elf croaked.

 “Inquisitor. I assure you. I have left you to your own devices for far too long. It is, no doubt, rather later than you imagine, and there are matters which require your attention.” Lavellan did not respond, so Josephine continued, “Your 'breakfast' is getting cold. I suggest starting with correspondence as it doesn't require a change of clothes.”

 The Inquisitor groaned and swung her heavy limbs over the side of the divan, suddenly realizing her error in wearing shoes to “bed.” Her feet were hot and numb inside the whiskey-stained boots. She untied and pulled off the offending articles eyes closed the entire while. “Can we at least close some curtains?”

 Josephine waved to a young human serving girl behind her who quickly bowed and busied herself loosing the cords holding back the heavy Orlesian drapes and easing them over portals around the room. Lavellan rose to her feet and Josephine lightly held her right arm as she shuffled over to her oversized desk chair. She plopped into the chair in front of her waiting meal. Josephine must have spoken with Cullen as there was a rather large tankard of the cook's special “mal aux cheveux” tea. Lavellan considered feeling ashamed of her half remembered actions the night before but quickly decided against it. Josephine pulled a chair up to the other side of the desk and began sorting through her stack of papers as the Inquisitor sipped her tea.

 “We've received troubling news from Crestwood. The drought there continues. Local ponds and creeks are running dry. The new mayor has asked for our aid. They need engineers to improve their irrigation systems and dowsers to locate groundwater.”

 “Crestwood? It used to be so lovely there.” Lavellan lowered her tankard.

 “How shall we respond?” Josephine readied her pen.

 “Yes, of course. Send them whoever they need,” she said, her voice bouncing off the inside of the mug as she took a drink of the bitter tea. “Also, send 20 barrels of mead to be rationed in case of emergency. What else?”

 “Birth notices. Three more Orlesian nobles have evidently named daughters in your honor. Shall I send the customary response?”

 “You dragged me out of my b-,” she was about to say bed, “divan for this?”

 Josephine said nothing only continued scrawling on the papers on her writing board.

 “Yes. What else?”

 Josephine's eyes lit up as she came to the last item on her agenda. “I saved the best for last. Several gifts have arrived in honor of the anniversary of your daring apprehension of the traitor Florianne de Chalons.”

 Josephine again waved at the sheepish human girl who darted out of the room only to reappear moments later carrying two parcels wrapped in vulgar gilded paper tied up with equally vulgar blue and white silk organza bows. Lavellan nodded thanks to the servant as the parcels were set on the clear end of her desk.

 “The smaller package is from Empress Celene the larger from Marquise Briala.”

 The Inquisitor looked down at her breakfast tray. The eggs were indeed cold. Those would not do. Instead she spread strawberry jam on one of the lemon scones being sure to avoid the edges. She loathed sticky fingers. She set down the knife, took a bite, slowly chewed, and swallowed. “You said several gifts?” she said as if suddenly remembering she was not alone.

 “Yes...The Divine sent a few rare early Chantry texts for our library and the university sent three lovely halla from their ruminant breeding program. Horsemaster Dennet has them in the stable.” Josephine tapped her quill against the edge of her writing board watching the Inquisitor stir more sugar into her tea. “Aren't you going to open them?”

 “Halla. What am I supposed to do with halla? Oh, let's see we need a gift for the Inquisitor. Should we send coin? No. Jewels? Certainly not. I know. She's an elf. HALLA!” Lavellan bit off a mouthful of the scone and gnashed it angrily. She took the small elaborately wrapped gift and ripped the paper open revealing a lacquered rosewood box. She swallowed the pastry and opened the box raising her eyebrows at its contents. “Well, at least Celene knows how to shop for presents. I was expecting a rabbit's foot.”

 Josephine jumped in her chair when the Inquisitor removed a jeweled golden dagger from the case. “Emeralds! That must have cost a small fortune.”

 “It's pretty, if a bit dull,” Lavellan said feeling the edge of the blade with her fingers. She scooted the other parcel closer and used the dagger to cut away the ribbons and paper revealing another, larger rosewood box. Setting down the knife she laid the box on it's side and opened the latch. Inside was an ornate silver hourglass filled with deep blue sand. She set the glass on the desk and watched as the sand fell silently forming a neat cone below.

 “Not as fine a gift, but it's the thought that counts, no?” Josephine rose and motioned for the servant to collect the discarded wrappings. “Do you have any personal remarks for the letters of thanks?”

 Lavellan's eyes were fixed on the growing pile of cobalt sand. “No. But, have some men take the halla to Dalish clan on the Exalted Plains. They'll be better off.”

 “The halla or the elves?”

 Lavellan looked away from the sand, “I'm sorry?”

 “Never mind. Very well. I will take my leave.” She turned to leave.

 “Josephine.” Lavellan idly traced the scrolling designs on the top of the hourglass. “Have you heard anything from our spies in the west?”

 Josephine looked sadly at the elf. “No. Nothing.”

 “Thank you, Josephine.”

 “Your worship,” Josephine gave a slight curtsy as she bade farewell and left the room, the servant girl scurrying silently after.

 Lavellan sat at her desk a long time eating another scone, poking at sticky yolks of the neglected eggs, cleaning under her nails with that ridiculous dagger. Eventually the sand ran out, so she shed her soiled clothing and washed her face and neck in the basin of cold water she had been meant to use the night before. She pulled yet another bland suit of human clothing cut to fit her elven body from her dresser drawer and laughed throwing the garments onto the neatly made bed. With sudden vigor she walked naked to the desk, picked up the hourglass, and turned it over. Time fell backwards in a thin stream of blue as an icy draft blew from under the balcony door kissing her bare feet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orlesian bit  
> mal aux cheveux- This is French for hang-over. It literally means sickness of the hair. I've always loved that ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. The Ptarmigan's Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan misleads a friend in order to obtain the magic she needs to find her heart.

 Two energetic male voices grew louder and louder as Lavellan climbed the narrow staircase toward the rotunda library. She pushed open the heavy door to find Dorian in the midst of some absurd conversation with their usually reserved dark haired elven bookkeeper.

 “Ah, but Dorian, the egg possesses the potential to transform into a chicken while the chicken possesses the potential to create yet another egg. The chicken-egg dilemma represents an infinite loop of living potential.”

 “Well yes, but from an egg may also emerge a dragon...or perhaps a delectable omelet. And, I'm sure you are well aware of the other less savory substances chickens 'create' in rather large quantities.”

 “Really? We are discussing one of the most enigmatic models in the field of modern biological philosophy. Must you resort to latrina humor?”

 The mustachioed Tevinter laughed. “No.”

 The bookkeeper didn't dignify the human's impertinence with a response instead choosing to take his assumed superior mind to more enlightened environs. Lavellan stepped aside as the elf stormed past her in a glowering blur of dark robes and flushed skin.

 “Inquisitor!”

 “What was that all about,” she asked walking toward her friend's favorite nook.

 “That was apparently what passes for philosophical discussion in the South, but to what do I owe the pleasure of your enchanting company this fine evening?”

 “I'm afraid it's business rather than pleasure.” An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach, dreading the half-truths about to spill from her lips.

 “I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed; nevertheless, I am at your disposal.” Dorian plopped into the over stuffed chair next to the darkened window and crossed his extended legs.

 Feigning nonchalance, Lavellan leaned her backside against the window, her hands behind her picking at lose mortar in the sill. “It is concerning time magic.”

 “A subject close to my heart, but even closer to Alexius'. Perhaps we'd be better off having this conversation in his accomodat--”

 “No,” Lavellan interrupted almost too emphatically then continued calmly, “We needn't trouble him. He seems to have finally come to terms with what happened to Felix. I don't want to give him any...ideas.”

 Dorian gave her the slightest questioning glance then settled deeper into his chair. “Very well. What would you like to know?”

 “Were you and Alexius the only mages in Tevinter experimenting with time magic?”

 “As far as I was aware, yes; however, there were others before and may be more now or in the future.” He furrowed his brow. “There isn't much of a point in it though, is there? With the Breach closed time magic is once again an impossibility...that is unless you know something I don't?”

 “Alexius' research seemed to confirm that, yes,” Lavellan answered as casually as possible pretending to be fascinated by the gold-leaf titles on the spines of the books piled next to Dorian's chair.

 “You doubt his results?” Dorian leaned forward in his chair.

 “Alexius concluded that his spell was only successful because the Breach had thinned the veil. There are, however, places where the veil is still thin, perhaps not thin enough, but Alexius did not test his spell in such a location.” She met Dorian's gaze before continuing, “If the power to travel through time fell into the wrong hands—”

 “There would be very little we could do about it. It's unlikely we'd even realize our past had been altered.” Dorian brought his elbows to rest on the chair's arms and tapped his fingertips together in thought. “You wish to conduct an experiment of your own, I take it.”

 “I would, with your help of course. If we are successful we'll know we have a new threat to look out for and can begin developing some means of defense. Harnessing this magic could also prove an advantage. I well understand the complicated mores surrounding the manipulation of time, but in the _right_ hands...imagine sending an infiltrator back to investigate a crime as it's being committed, not to change the past only to observe.”

 “I assume, my dear, that you don't plan on giving this invaluable tool to every constable in Thedas. Observation could quickly turn to intervention, and suddenly you're your own grandmother...or worse.”

 “It would be an extreme measure for extraordinary circumstances, only—if it's even possible.” The elf swallowed the bitter flavor of her lie and waited patiently for her friend's answer.

 “And, you know of one of these places?”

 “Yes.”

 “Well then, when do we leave?”

 Lavellan eased off the sill and smiled to herself, pleased with her successful deception. “Would tomorrow be enough time to prepare?”

 “I suppose it will have to be,” Dorian said rising from his chair. “I suggest a little light reading in preparation.” He withdrew a deepstalker hide bound tome from the shelf behind him and passed it to his friend. “These are my notes from our initial research.”

 Lavellan hungrily flipped through the crisp pages, scanning the elegantly slanted letters.

 “Where exactly will we be headed?”

 “Crestwood” she replied closing the book with a thump.

 

* * *

 

 Late into the evening Lavellan sat at her desk pouring over the secrets of the magic which would carry her on her quest. Dorian would never agree to send her to the moment in time she sought, and it would be a difficult spell for her to master in so short a time. The elf hadn't committed herself so fully to a goal since sending Corypheus to his end. Still, as the night wore on her focus waned. She dipped a finger into a pool of warm wax collecting at the base of the nearly spent candle on her desk feeling it collect under her short fingernail. Exhaling a long held breath, she pushed the tome aside, opened a small drawer, and removed a small glass flask. She removed the cork and drew the bottle to her cracked lips. The smell of whiskey prickled her noise sending the warming expectation of the drink down her throat and into her twisted belly.

 “Not tonight,” she said quietly replacing the cork.

 She collected her ill-gotten book and walked out onto her balcony. Cleansed by the icy air she leaned forward on the rail, the heavy tome precariously extended over the edge in her small hands. For a moment it seemed it might be easier to let it drop down and away—to retain only her treasured memories and to forget hope. She stood on the ancient stone looking out at the jagged line cut by the black of the Frostbacks against the blanket of stars, and opened the book to resume her studies by the dim light escaping the lead paned windows.

 “You change everything.” The warm voice of Compassion came from the open doorway cutting through the cold surrounding her.

 Lavellan closed her dry eyes and swallowed. “Hello Cole.” It had been a long time since last she'd encountered the spirit boy. Perhaps he'd been busy helping the slow trickle of refugees and pilgrims passing through Skyhold, or perhaps he'd simply been avoiding a wound he feared he could not heal.

 “You lied to Dorian. You know it's wrong, but you don't care.” Cole's voice was pained obviously both aware of and distressed by Lavellan's chosen course. “You want to help the hurt, but you can't from here. So you will have already. If tomorrow is yesterday then today will be better. It isn't right.”

 “Cole, I'm not going to change anything.” She opened her eyes again fixated on the sharp line in the sky.

 Cole remained in the threshold casting a long awkward shadow on the worn stones. “Ar lasa mala revas: you are now free. Only you are not free. I can help.”

 “No. I'm not the one in need of your compassion, Cole”—she closed the book—“When my clan fell at Wycome I endured. If I can move past that I can well bear the burden of a broken heart...but Solas...”

 Cole came nearer tilting his head to look up at the stars allowing the blue light of the waning moon to illuminate the pale face under his wide-brimmed hat. “His hurt is old. He wears it like an old woolen shirt on a cold night. It's worn, familiar; it scratches his soft skin. He does not remember...what it's like. He knows everything, but he understands nothing.”

 Lavellan knew better than to ask for an explanation. Cole and Solas had inhabited the same strange world, spoke the same obscure language, and the others only overheard bits and pieces in poor translation. She eased back from the edge, stood tall, and looked to the spirit now at her side.

 “I cannot be at peace knowing he is not. I love Solas. Emma Solas.” It was the truest thing she had ever said aloud. “I have to try to find him, for his sake but also for my own.”

 Cole looked away from the heavens and into the woman's honest eyes. “He was wrong to leave, but this...it isn't right. Take me with you.”

 For a moment Lavellan considered his offer. His stealth could prove useful in her hunt, but she wanted no backdoor into Solas' waking thoughts, no witness to her flawed alterations to the fabric of fate.

 “If this is a misstep it is mine to make alone.” She put a hand on the spirit's arm. “Stay here. Help these people. They are far more deserving of your compassion than I.”

 Cole's sad eyes rested on the green glow peeking out from under elf's small hand on his sleeve. “I hope I am wrong. I'll see you later then, maybe,” and then he vanished leaving a twinge of guilt in Lavellan's heart as the only proof he had ever intruded at all.

 Lavellan went back inside. It was late, and she was uncertain how many nights she would spend out of time, away from the comfort of her silken bedclothes and down pillows. She made a silent wish for a night of dreamless sleep as she set Dorian's tome on her bedside table and sank into the cold expanse of her bed. Tomorrow she would brave the wrath of the gods, Creators, or whatever unseen forces might oppose her to find her love's hiding heart and return it safely to his breast.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bit:
> 
> Emma Solas- I am Solas (Thanks for the idea, Emily Brontë!)
> 
>  
> 
> The more I think about the details the more confused I get by my own ideas. Solas, The Dread Wolf, Felassan, and Shartan are having a fist fight in my brain! Brownie points if you knew the chapter title refers to the codex entry “A Tale of the Frostbacks.” Thank you for reading! The kudos and bookmarks mean a lot. It's nice to know someone somewhere likes something I wrote even just a little bit.


	4. Tamed but not Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan and Dorian journey to Crestwood.

 They were an odd pair, the charming self-exiled Altus and the clanless former Keeper's First. They journeyed on in seeming companionable silence, the Tevinter on an Imperial Warmblood following just behind the Dalish. Since the defeat of Corypheus the Inquisitor had taken to traveling the wilds without a full complement, taking only one or two of her companions along. She hadn't the patience for the stories, jokes, and gossip which so often passed between her comrades as they followed at her back. Their lighthearted banter only made her own heart, by comparison, feel the heavier.

 Lavellan sat atop her bright Wild Hart looking more a rogue than enchanter despite the staff at her back. The shimmering stormheart mail of her adapted Dalish scout armor jingled rhythmically with each bouncing stride. She wore a brass spyglass lashed to her waist, the Token of the Packmaster around her neck, and Celene's jeweled dagger—now sharpened to cutting edge—tucked discretely into stained suede boots. The straps of her pack—filled to bursting with hard cheese, lyrium potions, Seheron java beans, and spare foot wrappings—sunk their burden into her petite shoulders.

 A softly whistled tune suddenly cut through the elf's troubled thoughts and the quiet percussion of gently clopping hooves on dry well-trodden ground and the calls lonesome crickets in the gathering dusk. Lavellan pulled on the reigns to fall back alongside the whistling man.

 “What song is that, Dorian?”

 “Sorry, I didn't mean to—”

 “No it's...I only wondered what it was,” she said apologetically realizing their shared silence had only been companionable from her narrow perspective.

 “It's a ballad. A rather unseemly ballad actually, about a lusty magister who beds...” he was unsure if he should continue considering the song's unsavory subject matter, “beds his elven slave leaving her with child. Both parties lament their blunder—the magister for soiling his proud bloodline and the elf for allowing a human child to grow within her. But, all is not lost, for in the depths of the elves sorrow and regret she slits her wrists with a carving knife thus ruining a perfectly good roasted boar but also relieving the lusty magister of any and all inconvenience. It's terrible actually, but it does have a rather catchy tune.”

 Lavellan quietly contemplated the ghastly story. “Was it consensual?”

 “I beg your pardon?” Dorian was at once puzzled but also relieved his poor choice in music hadn't vexed his friend.

 “The sex. Did the slave consent?” Her voice came to him in an even, calculated tone.

 “I don't know. It's not really addressed specifically, but considering the lusty magister's alleged skill in the bedchamber and the slave's cries of—and I quote—'unfathomable ecstasy' I can't imagine it wasn't.”

 Lavellan patted a hand against the hart's thick neck and it's pace quickened. As she pulled slightly ahead she called over her shoulder, “She was a fool.”

 Dorian urged his horse on to catch up to the Inquisitor. “Shouldn't we stop for the night? I don't know about you, but I'd rather not stumble off a cliff in the dark.”

 “It's just a bit further. We're nearly there.” As Lavellan spoke her alert eyes scanned the dry shadowed thickets.

 “Good. I simply can't wait to cuddle up in my luxurious bedroll.” A dashing smile accompanied the Tevinter's casual sarcasm, but Lavellan was too preoccupied to notice either.

 Before the last fiery vestiges of sunlight had sunk beyond the horizon the pair rounded a bend revealing the weather worn wolf statue which rested at the mouth of the cave which was their destination. Tired, hungry, and coated in a heavy layer of sweat and road filth the mages made their camp. Before long a fire had been built, their bellies filled, and Dorian was fast asleep, snoring in his tent. The familiar monotony of it all was a momentary comfort to the elf as she sat beside the crackling fire in the shelter of Fen'Harel's stoney flank. She poked at the fire with a twig and watched as wayward embers drifted into the cool night air before disappearing in the darkness.

 There was a time when she loved the night, evenings spent lying on her back staring into a mesmerizing sea of stars or laughing around a fire in the warm company of her kin. Now nights were not so easy. At nights they came to her—her ghosts, her sorrows and regrets. Even when sleeping she was not free. This night, on the cusp of traveling into the unknown past, _he_ haunted her. There were answers she should have questioned and questions she should have asked. She only knew that Solas was more than he seemed, but how much more, she could only guess. The not knowing scared her as did the prospect of knowing.

 Soon only embers remained and the world shrunk around the elf and her granite Knight's Guardian. She cast the twig into the fire and slipped silently into her cold tent, the wolf keeping watch as she dreamed.

 

* * *

 

 In the light of day the toll drought had taken on once lush and stormy Crestwood was painfully clear. Where there was once green there was brown and gold. Where there was soft moss and cool water there was now dust and mud. They passed the early morning eating undercooked porridge, repacking their tents, and discussing the finer points of the complicated spell they were about to cast.

 Before the sun was high in the cloudless sky the mages ventured into the empty wyvern cave. Dorian followed the Inquisitor's slight figure noticing that with each step forward her soft footfalls grew more timid. When they emerged once more into the light Dorian almost didn't recognize the elf before him. Her shoulders slumped in defeat, her sullen empty eyes, her mouth down-turned into some expression that was not quite a frown—these were not the features of the Herald he had followed into battle.

 Like the rest of Crestwood the ground was parched and only a few tufts of golden grass sprouted defiantly from the dusty dirt. The two monolithic halla which stood guard over the once sacred pool now obligingly stood watch over a sad muddy pond.

 “This place, it's of some importance to you—or rather your people, I think.” Dorian eyes were fixed on his friend's back as if waiting to leap to her aid, to help her shoulder some unknown burden, but the crisis never came.

 The falls had run dry. It was deathly still, yet the veil remained thin. Lavellan still sensed its electric vibrations against her skin, but in that familiar sensation somehow she _felt_ nothing. At long last she spoke, not to Dorian, not to herself, not really to anyone at all.

 “Here I learned of the eternal beauty of a perfect moment and of the fleeting nature of beauty and...of a moment.” She looked into the stagnant brown puddle littered with leaves blood red and gold. The elf turned to Dorian restored, wearing a calm smile and firmly holding Alexius' amulet in her marked hand. “Come. We have work to do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to have Dorian poke fun at Lavellan over the Cullen thing, but the story started writing itself instead. I also expected to get further along in the plot with this chapter. I had a draining week, and this chapter was being very difficult. The beginning and the end are easy it's all the details in between that are driving me nuts. If you all have any tips on connecting the plot dots I'd appreciate a comment.
> 
> I think we'll see Solas next chapter, but not in Crestwood. We'll meet up with him elsewhere...
> 
> Thank you very kindly for the kudos and thank you so much for taking the time to read.


	5. Perhaps He Cried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan casts her spell and slips away into the crackling whirlpool's tempting promise of reunion.

 The gently glowing amulet hovered, suspended by an invisible thread of will, above Dorian's gloved hands. The teal light of the burgeoning spell reflected off the still surface of the pool and in the glistening eyes of a determined elf. For all the energy Dorian focused on the unassuming object _she_ focused her dwindling hope in surplus measure. Glittering gold crackled in the dry air, the spell drawing energy from beyond the veil. The cool energy surrounded them and bits of delightful static danced across their exposed skin.

 “This might work!” Dorian shouted above hum of the congregating power.

 Lavellan's tired heart swelled at the thought, and a slight smile lifted the corners of her mouth and eyes. Within the glittering gold the familiar spiraling whirlpool emerged, but before the mages could slip into the vortex the amulet plummeted into the dry dust, the spell dissolving in a cloud of dark smoke. Lavellan scrambled in the sandy loam for the medallion, brushing it off with trembling hands and inspecting it for cracks and chips.

 “Well, that actually went better than I'd expected,” Dorian sighed and met the elf's gaze when she stood again to face him. “You were right about the weakness in the veil, but either it is still too strong here or I'm too weak a mage to exploit its weakness. I think we can both safely assume the former rather than the latter is the case.”

 Lavellan still clutched the amulet tightly in her sweaty hands. “We can try again, can't we?” Her words sounded pitiful even to her own ears. She checked her disappointment and cleared her throat before adding, “Certainly any insurgent bent on changing the past or seeing the future wouldn't stop at one failed attempt.”

 Dorian turned and walked toward the tunnel leading out of the cave. “That may be true, but I'm certainly not trying again today. My mana is spent and I never have enjoyed the flavor of lyrium potions especially when I know I have a sack filled with Summer wine back at camp.”

 Once again, the elf stood astride the pond watching her future walk away from her. This time would be different. She lunged after Dorian in foot long thrusts, her voice reaching his ears just as he disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel.

 “Wait!”

 Dorian stopped and turned, regarding her with a raised eyebrow.

 “Yes?”

 “I'll try,” as Lavellan spoke with authority holding the amulet in her raised marked hand.

 “Very well, but let's make this quick. Performing magical miracles is really rather tiring,” Dorian boasted walking back toward his friend. “Now remember for this experiment simply take us back to yesterday evening, not the days of ancient Arlathan. No one was here last night, so we know we won't accidentally interrupt anything...important.”

 “Of course,” she quickly agreed refocusing her attention on the amulet.

 “Are you ready? Any last minute questions?”

 “I don't think so.”

 “Alright then have at it,” Dorian said crossing his arms over his chest.

 Alexius' amulet lay inert in Lavellan's left hand. It took all of her indomitable focus not only to weave the spell's intricate magic but also to overcome the urge to travel to another time, another moment in this place. That time, that perfect moment was not to be relived or revised no matter how strongly she yearned for it. She was uncertain of how long she stood in the dust, channeling the energy seeping from the veil through the amulet, through the flaring mark on her tender palm. The rhythm of the spell grew louder in her mind, drowning out the sounds of chirping birds, rustling of late Autumn leaves, and other thoughts. Once again the amulet hovered in the air crackling in glittering gold.

 “Ha ah! That's it!” Dorian shouted his encouragement upon deaf ears.

 The whirlpool formed before them, but Lavellan did not see it through her tightly closed lids. The cave, no longer illuminated by the midday sun was painted a ghostly blue by the gathering magic. Dark smoke formed around the swirling portal, and suddenly the world went white.

 Lavellan opened her eyes and skeptically scanned her surroundings. The grotto was entirely it shadow. Either she had been successful or had been casting for several hours. Dorian surprised her by patting her firmly on the back. Her heart pounded rapidly in her tight chest.

 “Well done, my friend,” Dorian whispered.

 “Why are we whispering?”

 “If I remember correctly we are sleeping just outside this cave,” he said tapping against his temple with his long index finger. “I wasn't planning on meeting myself. I'm afraid the temptation may prove too strong to resist.” He flashed her a mischievous smile.

 “You really think it worked? Perhaps we should check.” Lavellan motioned toward the tunnel with her head.

 “If you insist, but I've never considered myself very stealthy. I'll just wait here.”

 “I'll be right back,” Lavellan murdered giving the amulet to Dorian for safe keeping.

 She walked softly toward the mouth of the tunnel, stopping to remove her boots before venturing inside. The eerie blue glow of dark mushrooms dimly lit the tunnel, and her hunched figure cast soft distorted shadows on its damp stone walls. As she grew closer to the tunnel's end and to their camp she took a vial of lyrium potion from her belt, downed it quickly, and replaced the empty bottle in its leather loop. She shrouded herself in the veil and peaked out into the cool night air.

 As if looking through a mirror she saw herself leaned against the wolf in the amber glow of the firelight. For the first time she noticed the shadowed creases on her forehead and the way her shoulder's drooped, defeated. Was this what she had become? She had told herself it was for _Him_...but it was also for her. Perhaps, in truth, it was always _only_ for her. She saw herself poke at the fire and watched as the orange and red embers burned out against the dark. Lavellan sank back into the cave and allowed her cloak to fall.

 With renewed conviction she made her way back through the tunnel toward the grotto. She picked up her boots and walked over to her obviously anxious friend. She sat down on a rock and pulled on her boots.

 “Well?”

 “It worked. I didn't think there was enough room in this world for two of you but evidently...” she joked re-lacing her boots and downing two more vials of lyrium.

 “I'm impressed. Vivienne would be livid. To think a mere Dalish hedge mage—you know I wonder why it worked. I have much more experience with that spell seeing as how Alexius and I devised it....perhaps it is the mark.”

 Lavellan stilled and looked at the dim glowing green light in her hand, considering Dorian's hypothesis. She stood up and dusted the dirt from her tunic.

 “Perhaps that's it. The mark and the Breach _were_ somehow related.”

 “As was Corypheus' orb. I doubt anyone else is Thedas is walking around with one of those,” he said motioned toward her hand, “but there could be other foci. They were common enough in the early days of the Imperium. This little experiment was well worth our time, I think.”

 As Dorian handed the amulet back to Lavellan the truth of her friends' words echoed in her mind. The Breach, the mark, the shattered _elven_ orb were all somehow related. The idea of it scared her as did her memory of Solas' face when he stooped to touch the fragments of the ruined foci. She swallowed hard wincing at the lingering bitterness of lyrium in her mouth.

 The return trip was far easier. Within minutes the spell had been cast, and in a flash of white light they were back in their own time. Lavellan pulled the amulet's leather cord over her head and reached her arms up high, yawning as she stretched.

 “You said something about Summer wine?”

 

* * *

 

 Dorian sat leaned against a half rotted log, his head, heavy with drink, hanging low toward his shoulder. The empty wine sack was lazily flopped on the dry ground, just beyond his sleeping fingers' grasp. The wine had been far too sweet for Lavellan's taste, but then she had always preferred Winter wine, the way its dark astringency coated her mouth and burned down her throat. She looked at Dorian across the fire's glow, at his long thick human legs splayed out before him as his broad chest heaved up and down in long sleepy breaths. Before the conclave the sight of him and his ridiculous mustache would have disgusted her, but as she looked at him now she felt only guilt toward this shem she called friend—guilt for lying for deceiving him as she had once been deceived. She waded through the turgid muck in her mind—thoughts of sentinels and gods, spirits and demons, chaste kisses and a carnal hunger deprived—secure only in the feel of the cold stone wolf at her back.

 They had fought together, ate together. Even before she had known him, _h_ _e_ had watched over her as she slept, studying the anchor. He had been her Knight's Guardian. His uncanny wisdom, the kindness in his smallest acts, the lyrical quality of his honeyed voice, the way he stalked toward her when they were alone had all blinded her to the holes in his story and the coincidences too unlikely to be products of mere chance. She was certain he had never directly lied to her; it would have been contrary to his very nature. However, she knew he kept secrets well-hidden behind his polite mask—perhaps dangerous ones. As much as she wanted to mend the rift in Solas' heart she also needed answers.

 She rose from her place by the fire and walked over to her hart. She removed a ring velvet cloak from the bundle strapped behind the saddle and tied it securely around her neck. The towering animal bellowed as the elf pulled gently on its reigns. Lavellan sharply inhaled flitting her eyes to her companion, but Dorian only shifted to rest his head against the log. Assured she had not been discovered Lavellan led her hart toward the mouth of the cave. The tunnel was small, almost too small for her mount to pass. After maneuvering the cumbersome creature past stalagmites and outcroppings of limestone, she emerged in the grotto once more. In the moonlight it had somehow regained some of its lost beauty. In the half-light she could almost hear the gentle falls tumbling into the tranquil pool as it had before. She ran her fingers through the vibrant hairs on the hart's muscular shoulder and pulled the amulet's cord up over her head.

 “Creator's forgive me,” she said before casting her spell and slipping away into the whirlpool's tempting promise.

 

* * *

 

 She rode on through the night, the chilled air cutting sharply through velvet and mail. It was early Spring again and the small streams which laced the Hinterlands like blue veins on an old woman's legs brimmed with icy water from the melting snow. There was no time to waste, and yet she had all the time in the world. She thrust her booted feet into the sides of her hart urging him to speed up, to carry her at lightning speed toward the Valley of Sacred Ashes—toward her past and her heart. He bellowed and squealed into the dim light of the approaching dawn.

 By afternoon she'd reached the winding road which led through the towering snow-capped mountains, toward Haven and the decimated temple. Her mount grew tired, so she slowed their pace. Her hart ambled on down the familiar path _they_ had traveled so often together exchanging warm smiles and later furtive glances.

 As the hours passed the bright blue of day faded into the pink and grey of dusk and the sky darkened once more with foreboding clouds. The hour was drawing near. She had to hurry. Lavellan once again thrust her small feet against the hart's muscled flanks and charged forward up the mountain trail. Overhead she heard the calls of Corypheus' false Archdemon and Morrigan's dragon. As she approached the crumbling ruins where she had fought her last great battle she pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head.

 She dismounted leaving her hart alongside his three seasons younger doppelganger, Cole and Sera's drakolisks, and Solas' Pride of Arlathan. Solas had fled on foot and so would she. She only hoped Master Dennet wouldn't think too hard about the sudden appearance of an extra mount in this stable. In the distance behind her she could barely make out the approaching Inquisition forces, their banners held high. The skies had grown quiet; the battle was nearing an end. Hidden behind teal velvet and shrouded in the fade she clambered up the broken stone steps to stand in the spot where she last saw _him_. She huddled behind a heap of smoldering rubble to wait for her past to unfold.

 She peeked up over the stones as the victorious Herald of Andraste and her two rogue comrades walked through the archway to greet her approaching army. For an instant Cole paused in the threshold. Fearing that he somehow _knew_ she was there she pulled her head back down behind the cover and recast her fade cloak. She heard the shouts and cheers of men and women, humans and elves, dwarves and qunari rejoicing together in the knowledge that doom was no longer eminent. Remembering the pride and the relief she felt in that moment she dared to look out once more in hope of catching a glimpse of the woman she used to be, but instead she saw _him_.

 Lavellan watched her heart, in stunning profile, watching her former self—the self that expected answers, hoped for promises, and got nothing. Solas turned away, looking straight through her illusion. She thought perhaps she saw tears in his eyes. She could never be sure of his emotions; they were sometimes temperate, other times intense, and often quick to change his smiles to frowns. He raised one of his elegant hands to wipe something from his eye. Perhaps he _had_ been crying. Then he left. He left the other her alone in a crowd of strangers who loved her for everything she wasn't.

 He passed so close in his flight that she could smell him—the comforting blend of candle smoke, clary sage, and warm wool. It took all her will not to reach out and catch his sleeve, to draw him against her trembling body, to kiss him and slap him in equal measure. This was a hunt, a quest for truth, not just the desperate hysteria of a woman scorned, so she would allow her prey the opportunity to flee, to lead her toward his den where she might unravel all his closely held secrets.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends,  
> I promised Solas this chapter, and you got him. I almost flaked on you and left him for next chapter, but my word is my bond.  
> We're going to be heading into a little bit of a trek through the wilderness and some flashbacks in the next couple chapters. I'm trying to depict a woman who is searching for herself as well as her beloved. I hope that starts to come through.  
> I know folks probably don't like reading about someone else's Lavellan...there's the whole self-insert, Mary Sue, blah blah blah junk to worry about. However, this elf isn't quite my Lavellan. She tried to jump off her balcony after end game! I started writing with a blank slate Lavellan in mind...no real background. She was just in love with Solas and depressed. She's developing a bit more character as I go on, but it surprises even me.  
> Solas will have a major role in later chapters. Chapter 8 is all Solas/Lavellan feels. I'm jus' sayin' in case you're worried this is just going to string you along.  
> THANK YOU very much for reading and for all the kudos. I'm dipping my toe back into writing after an absurdly long dry spell, and I'd really appreciate some feedback.  
> Take care!


	6. What is Hers and What is Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan watches Solas bathe and remembers a piece of herself.

 He was beautiful, the way his elegant form glowed in the ethereal light of the rising moon—like a marble statue left half sunk in an ancient lake whose name time had forgotten. The water, fresh run-off from the melting snow, must have been cold, but he didn't rush, his actions, as always, slow and deliberate. Lavellan pressed the brass of the spyglass, now warmed by her own heat, harder against her brow and cheek bones, as if by doing so she'd somehow get a closer look at the unsuspecting bather. Then, almost as if aware of her growing lust, he turned in the direction of the voyeur’s perch—water dripping in glistening lines down his pale neck from his cleft chin and from the hollow of his collar bone down the alabaster of his chest. She quickly pulled the glass away from her eye and recast her fade cloak. Of course Solas was too far away to see her, but her embarrassment made her cautious.

 If anything, her clan had taught her well to hide—how to drift through the world in quiet obscurity, how to lead a small, simple life of hearth-fire and song. So, she sat, silently admiring a body she had never _known_ , high in the branches of a twisted cypress tree on the outskirts of the Frostbacks. He had led her through the mountains, past fragrant trees, fallen boulders, and hungry wolves without respite, as if he feared what dreams might come should he sleep. She had observed from a distance when he filled his horn with the water from frigid mountain streams, and had seen where he had discarded the stones from Winter's last snowberries which hung plump and too sweet on their withering vines. She'd chewed bitter Seheron java beans to stay awake nights, silently following his shallow footprints by veilfire light.

 When at last the towering wall of the Frostbacks stood between himself and the Inquisition Solas had stopped—here where the snow and stone gave way to low grass and soft earth. Lavellan had watched from the edge of the foothills as he built a small fire and set wards around his lakeside camp under the new leaves of ancient trees.

 She raised the spyglass again to her sleepy eyes, peering across the meadow at her should-have-been lover as he washed the dirt of the road from his lithe body. He was not hers to gaze upon. The broad shoulders peppered with faded freckles, the straight back, the sculpted thighs, and what lie cradled within them did not reveal themselves for her benefit as she had hoped they one day might. It was wrong, as were so many of her actions of late.

 Lashing the spyglass once more to her belt, she slithered down the trunk of the tree to sit upon a nearby boulder and took a long drink of stale water from her Inquisition issue canteen. Three days trekking through the wilderness without sleep or a hot meal had left her completely spent and her left foot in constant pain. She sluggishly unlaced and removed the boot and sweat drenched stocking exposing her reddened blistered heel to the crisp night air. The petite human boots supplied by the Inquisition were fine for riding or casually walking around Skyhold, but her narrow heels too easily slipped and rubbed against the stiff material. She removed the other boot also inspecting for blisters and bruises. She found her foot bindings at the bottom of her pack and set to work wrapping her feet and calves with the sweet smelling bands of pliable leather. It had been a long time, yet the simple task came back to her as if it was still part of her daily routine. Feeling the cool comfort of the soil under her bare toes, she discarded the human shoes in the foliage of the juniper bush beside her and stowed the jeweled dagger she'd kept tucked against her calf into her pack.

 She climbed back into the tree, settling into a gentle crook, dropping her legs on either side of a great limb, and leaning forward to hug the welcoming trunk. Pulling her hood up over her bright hair just in case, she sleepily rested her cheek against the familiar roughness of bark. Her stomach growled, but she easily ignored its complaints. There would be berries and mushrooms along her next day's journey. Lavellan had forgotten what it was to live like this, in the present. She had missed it—living simply and thinking deeply, free from the chaos of troop inspections, state dinners, and brokering peace between empresses and kings. And so she drifted off toward happier memories and dreams, assured that the larks' song would wake her at dawn.

 

* * *

 

 It had hurt less than she had imagine but more than the others had claimed. Nevertheless, she stood in the afternoon sun behind her family's cheerfully painted aravel admiring her new reflection in her mother's old silver hand mirror. The twisting muted orange flame of Sylaise's mark still burned her youthful skin and warmed the blood beneath. 

 A warm, low voice came from behind her. “Your mother would be so proud,” he said placing his cool hands on her bare shoulders.

 She could see the soft creases of his smiling eyes and his greying sideburns reflected in the glass behind her.

 “It suits a mage, a future Keeper,” he continued, his usually steady tone cracked by the threat of tears.

 It was meant with kindness but the mere idea tainted the tender moment. She was guilty of a secret hope—that she would never be Keeper. Before she'd come into her magic she had hoped to tend the gentler flames in her people's hearts, to provide them the security of home and hearth, poetry and song—comforts that for her had died along with her mother when she wasn't yet old enough to understand the ways of Falon'Din.

 She was the Keeper's second. The clan only begrudgingly accepted her presence and the risk that came with an extra mage. The Keeper's first, Istimaethoriel, wasn't yet her father's age. If the role should ever fall to her the dreaded day would be so distant that she may succumb to disease, die in childbirth, or be traded to another clan before it ever arrived. It wasn't the future she wanted, and she loathed the reminder. She lowered the mirror to her side and turned in place to face her father.

 “And you? Are you proud?” she spoke with a harsher tone than she'd intended, her mind a whirlwind of dread and hope.

 “Da'len, you never needed to draw a bow, cast a spell, or mark your pretty face to earn my pride,” he replied moving his hand to trace his rough hunter's fingers over the new vallaslin.

 Her father was almost too gentle a man, always quick to forgive transgressions and wipe away tears. He had easily won her mother's young heart and had never recovered from her untimely passing. Men of his ilk were rare amongst the Dalish. In another world he might have been an artist rather than a hunter--his hands smooth, stained with rich pigments instead of calloused from drawing a bow. She smiled at his cloying words and passed the treasured mirror into his hands.

 He paused looking over the familiar object, its darkly patinaed surface festooned with bits of grey and purple polished shell.

 “No. You should keep it. It belongs to you now,” he said in a somber tone holding the mirror out for her to take.

 She reached out apprehensively to take it and clutched it against her chest near her heart. “Ma serannas. I promise, I'll keep it always.”

 Then her father looked past her, past the aravel, past the woods surrounding them, as if staring at some invisible storm looming on the horizon beyond the blue sky. “Promise me only one thing, Mellana. Promise me that you'll never forget who _you_ are.” His gaze returned to her, but she didn't recognize the intense expression he wore.

Confused, Mellana Lavellan nodded her head and said, “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

 A loud gasp rang through Lavellan's sleeping ears. Heart pounding rapidly in her tight chest, she awoke into the still darkness of early morning. She clutched frantically to the tree limb, holding her breath, listening, and looking for the highway man that might dare to slit her throat as she slept. There was nothing—no hungry bear growling at her heels, no assassin lurking in the foliage, no thug threatening to pillage her in the dirt—only the calm sounds of rushing water and flying insects. Gathering her cloak tighter around herself, she exhaled quietly against the tree and leaned her bare cheek back up against the rough bark. She slowly blinked her bleary eyes and stared off into the damp darkness toward where she knew Solas' still body lay while his restless mind wandered the fade. Before she might have reached out, joined him in the elsewhere to explore the mysteries of spirits and gods, but instead she closed her eyes and waited to return to the comfort of her own aimless dreams.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bit
> 
> Mellana- I just decided this is our Inquisitor's given name. It is derived from the elven word “melana” meaning time. I'm not going to start using this name because no one calls this Inquisitor by her first name. That was one of the points of the flashback in this chapter. I'm just putting it out there for future plot goodness.
> 
>  
> 
> This was another painful one for me to write. I wanted a flashback, but I had actually planned something different involving the blight. This came to me more easily and seemed to hit a lot of birds with one stone.  
> Expect a surprise or two next chapter. We are getting close to the confrontation. Hooray!  
> Thank you so much for reading. I know this isn't as fun and wild as a lot of stuff out there, so I really appreciate you taking the time to take in what I've written here. Feedback is welcome/encouraged/please comment, I'm begging you. Cheers!


	7. The Open Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan follows Solas into the Crow Fens where she discovers the first of his many secrets among the elven ruins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 had a missing word resulting in an incomplete sentence. I fixed it 6/23. Sorry.

 It was no wonder Leliana's people had been unable to find track Solas in his journey west. He avoided villages and the main roads by miles, traveling instead almost entirely along side wild boar paths—worn barren and deep—narrow partings in the Spring grass past prickle berry patches over clear running streams and under crumbling stone arches. At times she wondered if he actually had destination in mind or if he was simply idly wandering the wildness seeking out new memories in the fade, memories of other lives long passed to keep him company in his isolation.

 The isolation was driving her mad. The elf had never spent so long alone with her own thoughts, and although she traveled only a short distance behind her heart—so close that she'd occasionally catch sight of his smooth head through the trees—she _was_ alone. They were both alone traveling in parallel lines that might never, or perhaps should never, meet.

 Lavellan's supplies were running low and her patience wearing thin as he led her deeper into grasslands of The Dirthavaren, The Promise. She stayed to the high ground. At night she'd peer through her spyglass looking for the fire-lights from the Dalish camp, longing for the smiles and song of hearth-fire and kin, and by day she'd hunt alone for her illusive heart in the emptiness of wide-open spaces.

  Dark clouds blanketed the pale blue of the sky and it began to rain as she followed Solas into the northwest corner of the plains. She looked on through her spyglass as Solas disappeared into the ruins that stood between a now abandoned Inquisition camp and the grove and swamp beyond. Lavellan wondered what he could hope to find in that stagnant water. There was nothing left, no more puzzles to solve, no scrolls or relics to uncover. He couldn't possibly aim to wander the fade in such a place. Mere wards would be little protection against the gurguts which lurked there.

 She waited under her hooded cloak as cool drops fell into the bluffs chewing java beans and thinking about the deficiencies of light armor and the razor edges of gurgut teeth. Hours had passed since Solas had entered the fens. It was a dead end, a potentially dangerous, mucky dead end. Lavellan swallowed a last mouthful of beans and put away the spyglass. She wondered how much further west he planned the travel? Venturing alone, on foot, ill-provisioned through the Western Approach or the Hissing wastes would be suicide if not for him then certainly for her. She had followed his hermit meandering long enough. Perhaps he even knew she stalked his every move. Perhaps he was just within the ruins waiting to confront her. This was the end; it had to be.

 She knew from experience that chainmail, even of the lightest metals, rain and swamps were a bad combination. She quickly undressed and redressed, hoping her cloak would cover whatever skin her belted tunic and smalls left exposed. She made her way down the slope and into the ruins being careful to step only within his larger foot prints in the damp earth. As she set foot in the dank water she felt that familiar heat rise in her chest, the thrilling anticipation she'd almost forgotten. In a moment of absurd vanity she squatted down low so that the dim light reflected her face in the water.

 The face she saw looked tired, older. She untied her messy dreadlock of a braid and raked her fingers through her hair as best she could before deftly twisting it into a rope on the right side of her head. It was an old habit. The braid always on the right to balance the now absent vallaslin on the left. She licked and blotted her lips and tried on a closed lip smile, then frowned.

 “It is you, or is it?” The familiar voice came from directly behind her.

 “Cole—” she spoke without turning, looking instead at her own reflection in the dark water.

 “The twin harts are confused. I tried to help, but they don't understand.”

 They didn't, but she did. That gasp in the night—she had been right to suspect he had sensed her before, after the battle. She stood saying nothing.

 “It's wrong. You are here, but you are also there only different. She drinks sweet poison and cries in the dark. You watch _him_ wet, naked in the moonlight, like an urchin pocketing sweets in the market. You promised you'd never forget, but you did. Mellana not Melana. Hearthkeeper not huntress.”

 “Cole, you should not be here.”

 “Neither should you.” Icy blue eyes looked up from under the wide brim of his hat.

 The elf sighed into the humid air. “You told me that before.”

 “Did I? I don't think I did, but it sounds like me. The other me, the me that might be. Is he here too?” A flash of panic washed across his sunken face as his eyes darted about in search of traces of himself in the shadows.

 “I don't think so.”

 “You should go back. Now. Before what comes after—”

 “He hurts, Cole. I hurt. I need to know why.”

 Suddenly he wasn't behind her, but before her, between her and her heart. “The knowing doesn't help,” he said in a soft, sweet tone.

 Cole had always known more than he let on, but it clearly was not the time to press Compassion for ill-gotten information.

 “Go back to Skyhold, Cole. You will have a message for me—for her.”

 The spirit boy closed his eyes tightly and raised his hands to his ears. “Stop. I shouldn't know that! Tomorrow never knows what it was meant to be.”

 Lavellan stepped toward him. She slowly pried his sweaty hands from the sides of his head and held them out warmly between them. Cole looked into her eyes, searching for the friend he once found behind them.

 “Please. I need to help him.”

 “You want to know who he is, but you already know. He won't be happy that you're here. He's more himself than he was, like me only—” he closed his eyes and tilted his head as if straining to hear something through a closed door. Then suddenly his eyes flew open.

 “Cole? What is it?” Lavellan gently shook his hands.

 “I have to go,” was all he said before Compassion disappeared, leaving only cooling sweat in the elf's empty hands.

 Lavellan looked about as if he might suddenly reappear, but there was nothing. She pinched her cheeks and squatted back down to inspect her work. It was the best she could do.

 It was quiet. No birds called. There was only the sound of the drops gently falling. Once Solas had said he liked it here—liked the quiet. Lavellan wondered if perhaps quiet was all he sought in this place, a hushed corner to sit and think. She trudged on through the swamp, around primeval rock formations and past barren trees shooting up from the water like the masts of sunken ships. She followed the trail of dead gurguts, chunks of their flash frozen then shattered bodies thawing in the bubbling muck. Blood seeped into the shallow water tinging it pink and sullying the teal of her damp cloak as it floated behind her. To have killed so many single handed—she'd been foolish in doubting his ability to protect himself.

 The trail of blood and broken bodies led her deeper and deeper into the fen. At last she arrived in the open space which had once served as a dragon's lair. Lavellan pulled down the hood of her cloak, her face bathed in the glow ancient magic and the cool mist of fresh spring rain. The blood drained from her already pale cheeks as she looked on in disbelief. A dragon would have been a far more welcomed sight than the enigma, the confounding betrayal before her. There at the shrine to Fen'Harel, under the once empty archway stood a massive activated eluvian. The stone wolves, white and black, flanked its shimmering surface. Her feet carried her forward toward the mirror of their own accord. Her mind was useless to her such that she almost didn't notice Solas' pack and staff left at the alter beside accumulated offerings of incense and decaying flowers—left perhaps for her to find or perhaps because he simply no longer needed them.

 When she reached the doorway she took a deep breath. With eyes desperate to glimpse what lie beyond the swirling blue, she was suddenly uncertain what awaited her in Solas. A friend? An apologetic sweetheart? Perhaps even an enemy? Though skilled, Lavellan now knew her magic was a poor match for Solas', so instead of reaching for her staff she removed the dagger from her bag. The clean blade flashing blue in the mirror's blue glow, she prayed that she wouldn't need to use it and that she wouldn't be able to if she did. She tightened her grip on the dagger and recast her fade cloak before stepping through the open door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bit  
> Melana- time (as you might recall I named this Lavellan Mellana)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Feedback would be wonderful.


	8. Through a Glass Darkly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan confronts Solas in the the place between places.

 Again she found herself in the crossroads, the place between places, somewhere between this world and another. Somehow it was different this time. No mists hung in the air obscuring her vision. There was no veil to shroud the alien landscape of petrified trees, crumbling stone, and broken glass. She caught the faint aroma of clary sage in the air and followed it cautiously toward a strangely familiar darkened mass lying before another glowing mirror. At once she knew it was Mythal or her vessel at any rate—the horned headdress, the long flowing hair, the tight studded bodice could belong to no one else. She tucked her dagger into her belt, removed her heavy pack, and crouched low to examine the body. It was not decomposed or burned, just dark, quiet, and empty. The possible ramifications of Flemeth's death crowded out all other thoughts. In her distraction she didn't hear him approach, didn't sense him as he came to stand behind her huddled form.

 “How are you here, vhenan?”

 The sad song that was Solas' voice filled her ears, and she froze in a moment of unbearable heat. She let the fade cloak fall away and spoke in a small shaking voice. “You still call me that?”

 “You are out of time, are you not? The breach closed I thought time magic once more an impossibility,” he continued casually ignoring her question as if there was nothing strange about their standing in the crossroads before the empty husk of an elven goddess.

 “You were wrong,” she replied in kind.

 “Obviously.”

 His casual nature gave her the courage to ask the obvious question. “What happened to her? Morrigan's mother.”

 Solas paused before answering, his voice oddly strained. “She's gone.”

 She swallowed the inadequate saliva in her dry mouth and ventured one more question. “Did you kill her?”

 “No,” he said flatly.

 Lavellan gently touched the ashen cheek with the back of her marked hand. “She carried Mythal within her...She told me I did The People proud.”

 Briefly she regretted that she did not possess the power of The Well, but despite everything she chose to believe Solas. She rose to her feet feeling the other elf's heat through her damp clothing, his hot breath on her exposed neck.

 “Mythal was believed dead before. Perhaps she stowed a piece of herself away somewhere.” 

 “Gods can do that?” she asked turning away from the blackened remains to face him—his freckled skin, his sharp cleft chin, the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath the familiar ivory tunic all before her like living memories, physical manifestations of half-remembered dreams. Their bodies were so close that her bosom pressed against the dull edge of his talisman.

 Solas' carefully chosen words came slowly to his lips. “Gods...are ideas...born of desperation and corruption.”

 He said nothing more only stared past her at the empty vessel. It was then Lavellan saw the smoke dark and deep behind his eyes. Something had changed. He was not quite more himself but perhaps more _than_ himself.

 “That village in the north has been deserted for centuries. Elves likely hadn't lived there since the time of Andraste. You lied...unless you're 1000 years old.” Lavellan reached between them and took his talisman in her hand. "But, why would you lie about that?"

 Startled by her action Solas looked down at the small yellow leaves and pine needles in her hastily finger combed hair. He raised his hand to take the loose end of her rope braid idly rubbing its silken strands between his fingers.

 “You're like her. Aren't you?”

 Solas blinked, surprised by her question. Then he regarded her calmly and cocked his head thoughtfully. “And if I were?”

 Lavellan was far too familiar with this game they played, questions begetting yet more questions. This was a match she intended to win. She turned the blackened bone over in her hand examining it truly for the first time. “Which one are you? Dirthamen? You do keep your secrets....Or perhaps Falon'Din? That would explain your fatalism. Or...maybe it's the harellan. Imagine the former Keeper's first of the late great Clan Lavellan seduced by the Dread Wolf himself. At least I didn't take you to my bed.” She released the bone letting it fall against his chest.

 Solas retreated a few steps before facing her once more, his long face contorted in pain, shame, or perhaps it was fear? He couldn't look at her. “I wanted to tell you, vhenan.”

 “But you didn't.” She was bold; there was venom in her words. Whoever, whatever he was she still held the strings of his heart, and she knew she had nothing to fear.

 “No.”

 “Then tell me now.”

 This was a confrontation for which he was obviously unprepared. He just stood in the crossroads wringing his hands and waiting for perfect words that wouldn't come.

 “In my wildest dreams I never imagined I'd find you here. You knew this was here before, and you said nothing. I stood right there—” she motioned behind her as if the shrine in the swamp was mere yards away “—right there with you, and you said nothing.”

 “I couldn't,” were the only words he could find.

 She shook her head at the absurdity of it all. “A god, an abomination, a thousand year old dreamer. I don't know which is worse. You could have fabricated some creative lie—one I could have lived with. A pregnant wife in Antiva, a terminal ailment...but you called me vhenan when you cut out your heart. I wept for you.” Then there were silent tears streaming down her cheeks. It was too much. She feel to her knees covering her wet face with her dirty hands. This was not what she had planned.

 He started toward her, the instinct to hold her and wipe away her tears nearly overwhelming his better judgment.

 “Ma sa'lath, do not weep for me. I am unworthy of such tears. While you might easily forgive a well-meaning distortion of the truth or an error in judgment on a romantic evening there are other things you should never forgive. Things that even I cannot forgive.”

 Lavellan sniffled and futilely wiped tears from her eyes. “Fortunately it seems I've inherited my father's infinite capacity for forgiveness,” she spat through trembling lips. She stood and timidly bridged the gap between them. She took his familiar hands in her own, examining them as if the presence or absence of blood might prove or disprove his guilt. But it was no help. They were the same strong hands that had raised a staff with her in battle, the same gentle fingers that had ghosted across her sensitive skin in stolen moments. 

 “These trespasses, these things that mustn’t be forgiven, were they committed with these hands or with those belonging to another?”

 He pulled his hands away from her warm touch. “That doesn't matter, not any longer. The guilt is mine.” He spoke quickly and with conviction.

 “Even if you'd torn apart the sky yourself...” She could scarcely believe her eyes; his face told her she spoke the horrible truth. Suddenly his words at the ruined temple came fresh to her mind— _it wasn't supposed to be like this._ It was all becoming clear, too clear.

 “It is my duty to right my wrongs, to chart a course, to assure a better future for The People...for you.” He inhaled slowly through his nose and exhaled audibly through this mouth. “When they return I will face judgment. I do not expect mercy.”

 “ _They?”_ she nearly asked before thinking, before remembering the cryptic words that had passed along a country road between her vhenan and a spirit. _They sleep, masked in a mirror..._ The final pieces of the puzzle were at last falling into place. 

 “Who are _they_ to judge you? Elves who kept their own kind slaves and drew blood from those who wouldn't bow low enough? The People have endured millennia without their so-called gods. Perhaps we _are_ short-lived and most of us have lost our affinity for magic, but our destinies are our own.” Her words tasted of sacrilege, but she'd heard seen enough to know their truth. “If you want a better future for The People, for me, don't throw your life away for _them_. This is not a path you need walk alone. We can build that future together. We've already done so much.”

 Lavellan had always been a dangerous temptation. She could not have known how closely her ideas mirrored his in those last happy moments before he removed her vallaslin—before he'd freed her from the past and unknowingly bound her to his future—but it was a naive vision of a future that would never be. It had to be. Her very words were a selfish wish fulfilled. She stood before him bare-legged and weather-worn, desperate and beautiful, awaiting his reply, waiting for him as she had for months on end in a future he couldn't foresee. To be in her heart he would fail his own.

 “Legend has it in the desert there is a plant. Rare and beautiful...A thirsty traveler may cut out its heart at night, and by morning it will be filled with a sweet nectar,” he said in a quiet monotone. He was uncertain why he was telling her this strange bit of botanical trivia, but it somehow seemed relevant.

 Lavellan let out a small laugh through her nose. It seemed he was an immovable object. She looked away and returned to Flemeth's remains, black and still on the ancient paving stones. “Asha'Bellanar showed kindness to _my people_ , and she helped us in our hour of need. Whatever she was—is—she shouldn't be left here. We should bury her.”

 “I know a place where she might find rest.”

 For once she didn't wonder why or how she just accepted his words in grateful silence.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bit
> 
> Ma sa' lath- my one love
> 
>  
> 
> We're heading into the home stretch with this story. Next chapter Solas and Lavellan will have a little time to get just a bit better re-acquainted, so there's that to look forward to. It seems that I've saved all the juicy bits for the end. Bioware always does that too, so maybe you won't mind. 
> 
> More brownie points for spotting another painfully blatant reference to The English Patient. 
> 
> I'm still hoping for feedback if you can spare me a moment. I've mostly stuck to 3rd person limited POV, and I know I got a little omniscient in this chapter. I tried taking it out, but it felt like something was missing. Please let me know if it's too terrible. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'll see you next time.


	9. Strange Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas takes Lavellan to a strange island to lay Flemeth to rest.

 They had worked silently, carefully wrapping Flemeth's rigid remains in Lavellan's velvet cloak. Solas bore the heavy human body through the crossroads. She followed a few paces behind as he navigated the foreign landscape as if it was as familiar to him as the corridors of Skyhold. He stopped before a small darkened mirror, its stone frame cracked by an overgrowth of twisted vines. He murmured something into the glass, something so soft and ancient she could scarcely hear it let alone understand it. The eluvian sputtered to life before them.

 “This is the way.” He nodded toward the glowing surface and stepped aside.

 She stood popping her knuckles, uncertain.

 “I will follow,” he reassured her.

 Lavellan stepped cautiously through the mirror.

 She found herself on a black sand beach looking out onto an unfamiliar green sea. Squinting her eyes against the sun, she searched the horizon for land, for some point of reference, but found nothing other than a terribly out of place halla grazing on dark kelp strewn amongst the broken seashells and driftwood. Solas stepped through the mirror beside her; the warped surface dimmed as the mirror deactivated behind him.

 “Where are we?”

 “It is an island. Beyond that I cannot tell you.” He grunted as he adjusted the body in his arms.

 “You mean you won't tell me or you don't know?” Lavellan turned around surprised to find the lush undergrowth of a green forest sprawling out onto the warm, dark sand.

 “I don't know. This place is—old,” he sighed disgusted by the suspicion his past duplicity had wrought.

 She watched as he approached another halla supping on the tender clover growing where the beach met the forest. It was larger than any halla she'd seen before. It seemed everything was less grand than it once was. Solas gently placed the body over its sturdy back. Once assured the remains were secure he patted the animal's thick neck. The white stag headed into the wood, Solas following close behind. She stood in silence on the ancient beach as the majestic halla carried Asha'Bellanar toward her rest.

 _There was at least one true thing among Dalish legends,_ she thought to herself.

 Solas halted and looked over his shoulder at her blank expression. “It is not far. Would you like to wait here?”

 “No. I'm coming.” She trotted after him, her feet falling quietly on coarse sand and then soft dark earth.

 

* * *

 

 No words passed between them as they followed the halla deep into the forest. Vines rose up from the underbrush some covered in smooth grey bark so thick and ridged they would be mistaken for trees and others green, young, and flexible stretching toward the sunlight or leaning haphazardly in search of the support of an elder neighbor.

 The sun had sunk below the tree tops by the time they emerged in a large clearing. The ground was littered in heaps of stones of various shapes and sizes, all worn dull by eons of rain and blanketed in a velvety layer of deep green moss. At the center stood the mother to or perhaps the child of all the other vines they'd passed before. Hundreds of ancient twisting vines gathered into one majestic monument to the power of life. Its sprawling aerial roots soared skyward becoming its considerable trunk before branching out in a canopy of large glossy green leaves that blanketed the living stones beneath in eternal shade.

 The halla ambled over the rocks and boulders to stop at the great tree's base. Solas lifted the body from its back and placed it gingerly amongst the stones and gnarled roots. Sensing his duty completed the halla scampered back across the clearing and disappeared into the shrubs and vines. With shaking hands Solas picked up one of the nearby rocks and placed it atop the body. He reached for another and another, the green and gray of the stones covering the vibrant teal of Lavellan's velvet cloak. His motions were thoughtless and automatic as if guided by the hand of a ghost or a possessing memory floating in the fade.

 Lavellan stooped, taking a large mossy stone in each hand, and approached the base of the tree. Squatting, she placed the rocks on the growing mound. Then she saw the slow tears trailing in glistening lines down Solas' pale cheeks as he worked. She reached a hand across the grave to wipe away his tears. He let her.

 “I can do this. Why don't you head back?”

 Solas looked through his selfish tears into her warm eyes. “No, I will be—”

 “Go.” She placed a hand on his woolen sleeve. “Wait for me.”

 He placed one last rock upon the pile and stood watching Lavellan as she continued his work for him. He opened his mouth to say something, to offer some thanks, but no words would suffice. No words could ever express his gratitude for the undeserved kindness she'd shown him time and time again. It was difficult to relinquish his duty, but he knew it was safe in her capable hands. As he crossed the clearing and entered the embrace of the vines and trees he thought he heard her quietly singing over the gentle sounds of rustling leaves and stone softly knocking against stone. He wondered if the sweet sacrifice, the halam'shivanas, could ever prove as sweet as her gentle song.

 

* * *

 

 It was nearly dark when Lavellan emerged onto the beach again. She had thought to find Solas patiently waiting for her to pass back through the eluvian, but it seemed he had other plans. He had built a small campfire but stood away from its meager light facing the darkening sea. She noted his woolen tunic and foot bindings neatly folded beside the hearth stones. Solas had always worn long sleeves, even in the Hissing Wastes. She could only assume the island's tropical humidity must have at last proven too much for him or that he had simply grown tired of casting ice spells to keep cool.

 She ambled down the beach toward his slender form, studying the unusual design and flattering lines of the tight-fitting sleeveless shirt he'd always worn under his clothes as she approached. The sunburned skin of her bare arm brushed against his as she walked past him and stepped into the shallows to rinse the dirt from her limbs and face in the cool, salty water. A silver sliver of the moon loomed large on the horizon painting delicate strokes of white light across distant ripples and the gentle tide that lapped at her ankles. Her stomach growled.

 “You are hungry.” His voice came softly to her ears.

 She was too tired to protest. “Yes.”

 She heard his bare feet trudge through the sand behind her. She shook the sea water from her hands and headed back toward the campfire after him. With the veil of dusk offering little relief from the heat the warmth of a fire was the last thing they needed, but still she huddled near its comforting glow as she watched Solas return from the forest's edge carrying a large pink orb she could only assume was some sort of fruit. By the light of the fire he pressed his thumbs into the flower-like structure at one end and deftly ripped the fruit in two, revealing tightly packed clusters of dark, gem-like seeds. He held one half out to her, blood red juice dripping from his fingers.

 She reached out to accept the offering wondering if this would be the last meal they'd share or if like in the human fairy stories of old partaking of the delicious fruit he'd tendered would leave her trapped behind the eluvian in his underworld for all time. At the moment the latter didn't seem so unappealing. The light from the rising moon shone eerily in his smiling eyes as she took the fruit from his outstretched hand.

 “They used to call it the fruit of the dead.”

 If that was supposed to reassure her it certainly did not. She carefully inspected the tempting seeds inside the thin leathery rind. “May I ask why?”

 “You may, but I'm afraid I cannot provide an answer. I do not know everything.”

 “I shall have to remember that.”

 Solas sat cross-legged in the sand across from her, uncertain if his close proximity would be welcomed or even accepted. He took a small handful of red seeds, popped them into his mouth, and chewed slowly. Savoring the tart juice that washed over his dry tongue, he watched Lavellan's face through the flames—the light and shadow simultaneously masking and enhancing her beauty as the flame of Sylaise had before.

 “Did you like me better when you thought me an eccentric—how did Dorian put it—hobo apostate?” His lyrical voice broke the uncomfortable silence.

 “I liked you better when I thought I knew you,” she said experimentally placing a few of the seeds in her mouth. The gush of flavorful juice surprised her as their membranes broke against her teeth.

 “You do know me, better than anyone else.”

 She laughed quietly as she worked a cluster of seeds lose from the rind.

 “Did they bring you comfort?” His tone turned more serious.

  Confused she stopped chewing, her raised eyebrow demanding clarification.

 “Your gods?”

 "Oh." Lavellan considered for a moment looking down as if the answer was in the fruit in her hand then met his intense gaze across the flames. She carefully placed the glistening cluster in her mouth, chewed briefly, and swallowed before responding. “I knew they were meant to, but no they were not a comfort. Not when my mother died in childbirth nor when the blight took my father. Perhaps it's just that I needed them most when I was too young not to question their inaction or their silence. You only reaffirmed a lingering suspicion, I'm afraid.”

 A smile dared to raise the corner of his mouth. “We were—are—no more gods than you or their beloved Andraste, but given time the masses made divinities of us all.”

 “You think they'll make me a god of me? A Dalish elf? A mage?” She scoffed at the ridiculous notion.

 “Haven't they already, _Your Worship_?”

 “I'm only a woman, flesh and blood,” she quietly protested slipping a few more seeds past her juice stained lips.

 Solas tilted his head thoughtfully. “You are many things, vhenan.”

 She watched his agile form as he rose and moved around the fire to sit at her side. Her body tensed at his closeness at the feel of the rough fabric as his knee touched her bare one. He took her marked hand in his turning it over and tracing his cool fingers across the lines in her palm, across _his_ mark.

 “I am sorry for this, for the pain it's caused you.” His words were quiet and earnest.

 “I don't need an apology.”

 She watched his sad eyes as they followed the motions of his fingertips over her skin. He looked up—their two sets pensive eyes reflecting the orange light in the dark. He timidly brought her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips tenderly against the softly glowing green. The strange fruit tumbled from Lavellan's lap into the dark sand.

 Then it was as if no time had passed, no harsh words had been spoken. They were no longer a reviled trickster “god” and the Herald of Andraste; they were only two elves, in love, alone on a deserted moonlit beach. Lavellan reached out to skirt timid fingertips over the lean muscle of his lightly freckled arm as if to prove to herself that he was real, not an illusion of the fade or a reverie brought on by a night of heavy drinking.

 He looked down at her elegant fingers upon him and then into the warmth of her eyes. Her body trembled and her heart beat wildly in her chest as he carefully removed her royal sea silk scarf and trailed the flat of his hand down her bare neck, his thumb gently caressing her throat and coming to rest in the hollow of her collarbone. She could feel her pulse quicken against his hand as he captured her mouth with his own. Savoring the heady flavors of salty skin, tart fruit juice, and his ardent tongue, she moaned into his mouth. Then she felt the warm embrace of the sand against the length of her body as he softly pushed her back onto the ground. She looked up into a sea of strange stars and the familiar glimmer in her vhenan's grey eyes looking down on her, his own body flush against her side. He smoothed the pad of his thumb over her hot lips.

 “You are so beautiful,” he whispered and slightly shook his head in disbelief.

 He leaned forward to press a string of moist kisses from the pink tip of her ear down the side of her neck. The knot in her chest cinched tighter as his lusty fingers found the exposed skin at the sides of her belted tunic. She felt his growing need through his linen trousers against her bare thigh and her nipples stiffened against the tight fabric of her breast band. When her hands moved to unfasten her belt he suddenly withdrew.

 “Wait, this...it isn't right.” His voice a juxtaposition of desire, panic, and frustration.

 Lavellan held her breath in confusion. She should not have been surprised. It had always been his way, to take her in only to push her away, to always leave her wanting more. She sat up and looked at him, his chest still heaving up and down, the swell in his lap betraying his words. “Why does that sound familiar?”

 He smiled weakly and leaned over to kiss her flushed cheek.

 “Forgive me. This is not _our_ time. My heart is back at Skyhold and yours...I'm uncertain where _his_ path lies.” He took her unmarked hand, admiring the pieces that fit so perfectly. “I'm glad to have met you and perhaps...perhaps we'll meet again.”

 She couldn't fathom how easily he could dismiss the yearnings in his heart, how quickly his affection could turn to rejection. “But what if _he_ doesn't return to me?”

 “I hope _he_ does, but I know _he_ shouldn't,” he said wistfully, still holding her hand.

 “Solas—” she shook her head remembering the truth “—That isn't even your name is it?”

 “Does it matter?” He rubbed the back of her smaller thumb with his larger one.

 “No. I suppose it doesn't.” She returned his smile despite the pain in her chest and dared to hope despite the fear in her heart.

 “As I recall you never gave yours either, Inquisitor Lavellan.”

 “Perhaps I'll tell _him_ someday,” she wished into the thick night air before yawning.

 They were both still breathing heavily. He looked down at their entwined fingers, the customary slight frown returning to his blushing lips, as he imagined the all the precious things he would never know. He let her go and rose to fetch his tunic from the sand. He rolled it up into a makeshift pillow and passed it to her.

 “You are tired. Sleep. I'll wake you in the morning.”

 She took his shirt and tucked it under her head as she lied back on the sand staring up again into the unfamiliar stars. He poked at the dwindling fire with a piece of driftwood before leaning back against the sand to join her in her stargazing.

 “Have you explored the fade here before?” She turned her head in his direction admiring his profile in the low light cast by the dying flames.

 “Yes.”

 She waited for him to continue, to spin some compelling yarn about an ancient battle or a meddling spirit, but instead he remained silent. “Well, what did you see?” she coaxed.

 “Nothing. There are no memories here.”

 Lavellan looked back toward the sky toward the pinpoints of light shining through the blanket of black. She wondered if his claim still held true and hoped that he might think to rest here again to relive the moments just past in a different light. She closed her tired eyes and snuggled her head against the rough tunic savoring the smell of _him_ and the calming roar of the sea as her last waking thoughts drifted toward the future.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bit
> 
> halam'shivanas- the sweet sacrifice of duty (in case you forgot)
> 
>  
> 
> The tree featured in this chapter is inspired by the banyan tree, a fig tree which begins its life when fig seeds germinate in crevices in another host tree. The new fig trees grow to surround the host eventually strangling it. It was the most mystical tree I could think of. Fig trees, due to their odd symbiotic relationship with the fig wasp, are odd enough, but banyans are crazy. Look them up; they are beautiful.
> 
> If you couldn't tell I was also trying to allude to the myth of Persephone and Hades in this chapter as well, hence the strange fruit heavily reminiscent of a pomegranate. 
> 
> Also, the bit with the halla carrying the body refers back to a codex entry...I'm not sure if it was in Inquisition or Origins, sorry.
> 
> I think this chapter is a little too heavy on the “ He [insert verb]. Then he [insert verb]” structure. I hate that simple sort of repetitive writing, but this chapter had a lot more going on than the others. I'm sorry if it's not as artful as some of my earlier chapters.
> 
> Lastly, I'm aware this chapter title is also the name of a song protesting lynching. Please only chalk it up to coincidence. However, it is a poignant song which I recommend everyone listen to.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. Please leave feedback if you can spare the time.


	10. Transmigration of the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan heads back toward an uncertain future, and she's okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bits:
> 
> This week's elfy bits are brought to us courtesy of FenxShival's exceptional work Project Elvhen: Expanding the Elvhen Language. I highly recommend checking it out here on the Archive. It's fascinating reading if you have any interest in language.
> 
> On dhea- good morning  
> 'Ma'las- my hope

 “On dhea.”

 The old words came sweet and low to her sleeping ears, their comforting sound dispelling the fog of dawn's last fantasy. She felt his hand on her shoulder. For a blissful moment she imagined herself at home, snug beneath the furs and hides in her father's aravel. When at last she opened her eyes she saw the blackened wolf bone hanging from his neck and remembered all that had passed. The Truth. In the light of day everything was different, her uncertainty faded by the clarity that comes from new dreams in unfamiliar places and breathing deeply clean sea air. She lazily sat up and rubbed the vestiges of sleep from her bleary eyes.

 “Perhaps you should eat breakfast before you go.” He passed her a large speckled egg before sitting back in the sand.

 She nodded her thanks. The egg's smooth shell was pleasantly warm in her palm. She wondered if he'd used magic to hard cook it from the inside out or if he'd simply buried it in the sand around the hearth the night before. The former amused her a great deal and she smiled at the idea of Solas up nights composing his great masterwork “The Arcane Art of Cookery.” Regardless, she was hungry and hadn't had hot food since she stepped through time.

 “I was dreaming,” she said carefully peeling the egg letting the fragments of colorful shell fall in contrast against the black sand.

 “Oh?” Solas watched her motions intently in expectation of details but received none.

 Lavellan tossed the last large piece of shell into the empty hearth and took a bite, pleasantly surprised to find a luxurious soft golden yolk within. She chewed slowly as the morning tide gently lapped on the shore. The orphaned briny foam fizzed against the damp sand. 

 “Cole misses you,” she finally said choosing the comfort of mundane conversation.

 “I should expect he does. He's well?”

 “I don't see much of him. He's rather cross with me now—for coming here.” She took another bite, carefully nursing her meal so as not to waste a drop of the silken center.

 “He would be. Although it may not have been your intention to alter past events he knew you would. Cole is perceptive...at times too much so.” Turning his gaze toward the endless green sea, he squinted against the morning light. “I imagine he is cross with me as well.”

 Continuing to enjoy her breakfast she only hummed in agreement.

 “Tell me, vhenan. With the power to go back, to re-write history why come to me, now?”

 The question was one she had never asked herself. To her it was not a matter for debate. Time magic gave her the power to go back, to witness first-hand the fall of her people, to save her clan from their tragic end, to warn her own father not to go out alone in search of one wayward halla during the Blight. She swallowed the last bite carefully considering her words. “I wanted to know the truth. I wanted to help you. I still do, but...it isn't my place to change the past any more than it is yours to unilaterally decide the future.”

 He smiled at her subtle wisdom. It would be so easy to forget the past, if he was unwilling. His hand found the jaw bone and pulled the cord taught against the back of his neck. But, the price was too high, and he _was_ willing. He counted his breaths waiting for the scales to stabilize, struggling to find the peace. Across the beach the eluvian's unnatural form, the legacy of Elvhenan, stood silhouetted against the bright morning sky and the shimmering sea, taunting him. 

 “I think it's time for me to go, Solas.”

 All at once he perceived her slender form standing before him holding out his rolled up shirt. He shook off his musings. “Keep it. I suspect the weather may not be as temperate where you are headed.” He couldn't have realized the true value of the gift he offered.

 “Thank you.” She reverently pressed the fabric against her chest before slipping the heavy tunic over her head.

 

* * *

 

 They paused briefly in the place where Asha'bellanar had fallen for Lavellan to collect her pack and staff. She tightened the straps and wedged her weapon into place at her back. Standing before the mirror as if it might suddenly reveal her reflection, she considered assuring Solas that she believed him—that she knew he hadn't killed the human, but she decided it wouldn't matter.

 “I would shorten your return journey if possible. Morrigan's mirror remains at Skyhold?” His calm voice broke through the silence.

 “Yes,” she answered turning toward him, “as it shall.” It was an open invitation, but she doubted he'd interpret it as such.

 She followed him back toward the familiar hub of mirrored surfaces where the portal through the witch's mirror and back to Skyhold stood flanked by miniature twin stone dragons.

 “I suppose if I stick to the battlements I won't risk running into myself—or anyone else,” she said rolling up the too-long sleeves. “The watch up there was always lacking.”

 She looked up to see the pain written on long his face. He didn't respond only silently took in the sight of her like a sailor savoring one last glimpse of land before setting off on a long voyage. It was clear why he'd left without saying goodbye—because he couldn't. She took his larger hand in hers and looked down at their entwined fingers, at the invisible threads which bound them together.

 “I know you'll do the right thing.” She smiled despite not knowing what that right thing might be.

 He opened his mouth as if to speak, but she silenced him with a chaste kiss, a soothing gesture.

 “Dar'eth shiral, 'Ma'las,” her parting words fluttered softly against his cheek and burned deep in his heart as she cloaked herself in the fade and stepped backwards through the mirror. He was her hope as she would always be his.

 On the other side she stared into the eluvian's enchanted surface—knowing that only its thin swirling magic separated her from love's embrace, from the elf who stood alone in the forgotten place between places. She waited a moment for the mirror to go dark, for Solas to close the portal from the beyond. He didn't.

 

* * *

 

 Given the early hour the garden was deserted, only the larks could have seen the light from the activated mirror pour onto the passageway as she slipped through the door or heard her soft footfalls as she climbed the steps to the battlements. When she'd passed under the portcullises and across the drawbridge she heaved a sigh of relief and let her fade cloak fall away.

 “He was worried you'd forget.”

 She gasped and her heart leaped in her chest as Cole suddenly materialized behind her holding the reigns of her wild hart. “You scared me,” she panted.

 “He is happy now. It sounds different. The song—it changes. Nothing is inevitable. I didn't know.” The spirit stepped closer and extended his free hand to stroke the rough wool of Solas' tunic. “A song bird in wolf's clothing.”

 Lavellan turned around smiling at the many meanings in his cryptic words. “It was good of you to bring him to me.” She gently took the reigns from his gloved hands.

 “There is water—and apples. He likes apples.”

 “Thank you, Cole,” she said hoisting herself up onto the stag's back.

 The boy petted the purple fur on the hart's chest. “Guide him to the shining places.”

 “I will.”

 She nudged the hart's flank with her leather wrapped heel and they set off across the iced over bridge. When she reached the exterior gatehouse, she looked back to find Compassion, clad in an otherworldly halo of pale blonde hair and stark morning light, still watching after her.

 

* * *

 

 Her wild hart carried her swiftly over harsh thawing snow-pack, across placid green meadows, and through fragrant pine forests, back toward the promise of the unknown future. Again she wove the intricate Tevinter spell, and once more her indomitable focus bent the course of time to her will.

 The unpleasant aromas of turgid muck and rotting leaves told her she was back where she belonged. In the Autumnal night sky above the grotto she spotted Fenrir's twinkling lights shining bright against the sea of black. Whatever the future held it would be hers, and she wouldn’t regret a single moment along the way. She returned Alexius' amulet to rest against her banded breast and led her hart across the dry cracked earth, through the dark tunnel. She emerged to find the camp just as she'd left it, Dorian still snoring in blissful ignorance as if no time had passed. Leaning her head against a raised shoulder she took a deep breath of clary sage and candle smoke. Time had passed. She pulled gently at the reigns and tip toed toward the barren tree to which her mount was meant to be tied for the night. After lashing the leather strap to a suitable branch she rummaged through her saddle bag to remove one of Cole's apples.

 “That's an interesting fashion statement, and by interesting I mean _painfully_ familiar.”

 She jumped, the apple tumbling from her hand into the dusty dirt. She spun around to find Dorian wide awake, scowling, and relatively sober. “Dorian, I—”

 “Well, I suppose you think old Dorian quite the fool.”

 “I'm sorry for misleading you. I just—”

 He scoffed, “No need to flatter yourself. I suspected your true motives from the start. I just doubted it would come to this—lovely legs by the way.”

 She self-consciously glanced down at her bare thighs. “I only—”

“However, seeing as we're both still quite alive and as far as I recall neither of us is our own grandmother I suppose I have no business complaining. Although in your particular case I have serious doubts about the grandmother part.” He crossed his arms over his chest and kicked at the ground sending a plume of sandy loam hissing into the dwindling fire.

The elf pulled Alexius' amulet out from under her clothes, walked over to her friend and placed the cord over his head. Dorian's expression softened as he looked down at the precious object. “Did you find what you needed?”

“I think so.” She placed a pleading hand on his ridiculous silverite studded gauntlet. “Can you ever trust me again?”

He paused a moment for dramatic effect before meeting her gaze, his gleaming eyes and dimpled cheeks betraying his serious front. “Probably.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't laugh at my title! ;) I love the heart/hart homophone...not to mention the vhenan thing. I've been dying to use it since I obtained my first hart in-game.
> 
> I thought of this chapter as "connective tissue." I probably should have tacked half of it on to chapter 9. When I'm completely done I might go back and rework that. Anyway, it's out of the way. Hooray! Onto tastier morsels and a heart to heart with Loranil!
> 
> I had really only planned on Cole's role in this story being limited to the small bit in chapter 3. I'm really pleased with where the plot bunny led me with him. I like how, “He was worried you'd forget...He is happy now. It sounds different. The song—it changes. Nothing is inevitable. I didn't know,” can be interpreted in 3 ways in the context of my story. He can refer to 3 different characters: the hart, Solas, and Lavellan's father (who if you might recall made her promise not to forget who she is). It was a happy writing accident. Let me know what you think. Maybe the 3 interpretations are only obvious to me.
> 
> Feedback is welcomed/encouraged. I'm mostly writing this for the exercise and feedback on my out-of-shape writing, so I will be eternally grateful if you drop me a line.


	11. Keeper of the Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan and Loranil speak of the future and the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bits:
> 
> vheres lestun- Cat's Whisker (a small elven stringed musical instrument). I fabricated this word with help from FenxShival's exceptional work Project Elvhen: Expanding the Elvhen Language (here on the Archive).  
> vher- cat  
> lestun-cord, string  
> The idea came from the nickname for old crystal radios which I recalled George Harrison mentioning in an interview once upon a time. My made up instrument is inspired by the ukulele and has a D G B E tuning (an old bright sounding tuning which has fallen out of favor since the 1930s).

 It hurt more than she had expected yet less than Cabot had warned, but then perhaps, like most self-inflicted wounds, the real pain would come later. The dwarf's crude needle stabbed rhythmically, a constant heavy pressure planting muted green pigment in her tender flesh, drawing precious beads of old blood along its path. With her eyes shut tight the elf clenched her teeth against the pain. Visions of other places, memories of other moments revealed themselves in red and black—flashes of light and shadow against the thin skin of her eyelids. The index finger of her marked hand gently tapped against the wooden counter, her nail leaving a faint crescent in generations of layered lacquer, wax, and varnish. Suddenly the needle stopped, her right hand throbbing with a familiar dull warmth.

 The tattooed dwarf picked up the sketch she had provided, held it up to his living canvas, and smiled broadly. “Heh, I do good work. It's no fire-breathing bronto but...” He hopped off the too-high bar stool.

 “It's perfect, Cabot. Thank you.” She stared into the elegant swirling lines on her burning palm.

 “Complements are nice, but gold is better.” Cabot returned to his usual place behind the bar, stashing his inking equipment in a battered leather box.

 She used her left hand to remove a small coin pouch from the hip pocket of her new brown linen dress. The precious coins jingled against each other as she plopped the heavy pouch onto the counter. “I hope this will be enough for your trouble.”

 The dwarf picked up the payment, weighing its value by hefting it gently in his thick fingers, and grunted approvingly in response. The pouch disappeared into his own pockets. It was a slow evening at the Herald's Rest. The troubadour whose lute playing usually filled the small space was replaced with a somber hush and the low crackling of logs in the fireplace. A pair of human sweethearts sat huddled in a dark niche sipping cheap wine and exchanging whispered obscenities. The elf's keen ears intruded upon their assumed privacy. She blushed at their ardent words while envying their innocent intimacy.

 “How about a drink? This new Avaar swill isn't too bad,” the bald dwarf offered uncorking a ceramic jug with his yellowed teeth. He poured the golden liquid into a dented pewter mug.

 “No. Thank you,” she said slipping off from the stool onto slightly unsteady feet. “Another time, maybe.”

 Cabot just shrugged polishing off the mead himself in one long chug. As she climbed the stairs to the second floor she heard his gruff monotone call after her, “Come again. Tell your friends.”

 She kept climbing, each wooden step creaking under her feet, until she reached the top. The dimly lit attic was a mere transitional space to most—little more than a landing between the comfort of the tavern and the stoic battlements surrounding the mountain fortress—but she knew it was a favored haunt of Compassion. She strained her eyes searching the dark corners, listening for any indication that she was not alone.

 “Cole?” she whispered into the empty space.

 Her only reply was the shrill squeak of a startled rat. The last time she'd seen the spirit boy was either the night before she and Dorian and left for Crestwood or shortly before she returned from her audacious escapade in the past, depending upon one's point of view. If he was with her she hadn't seen him, or perhaps she had and only forgotten.

 She continued through the patchwork maze of wood and granite, old and new. Stepping out onto the ramparts she shivered as the crisp Autumn air kissed her cheeks. Skyhold had been her home, her only home, for more than a year, yet she still hasn't learned all its secrets, partaken all its vistas. Leaning against the ancient grey stone _he_ had given her—the cold walls that contained her forces, that contained her—she looked out into the soaring snow-covered peaks washed in the enchanted glow found only in the magic moments between sunset and dusk. When she and Dorian had first returned to Skyhold, she had marveled at how nothing had changed. The stone was just as hard; the soldiers just as tenacious. The books in her private study lay opened to the same tear stained pages. Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed.

 The distant sound of cheerful after supper chatter turned her gaze toward the dimly lit windows of the mage tower. The door at the base of the tower was open spilling its warmth onto the lonely battlements. She eased back from the wall and headed toward the light hearts and bright laughter. The mages who had chosen to stay with the Inquisition forces had formed a tightly knit clan of their own. She wished there might be a place for her amongst their merriment, but she was the Inquisitor, their leader. There would always be a respectable distance between them despite their entwined fates and shared gifts. So she only passed though their domain, entering through an open door and exiting through yet another closing it softly behind her. There were other open doors.

 It had been easier than she had expected to fight the temptation to steal away into Morrigan's eluvian after returning to the present. At some point, she couldn't say when, she'd decided it was better not knowing if the door remained ajar as _he_ had left it not so long ago, that it was better to have hope—faith—in something. When she found herself at the bottom of the stairs in the colonnade which surrounded the empty garden she discovered new doubt in that convenient conclusion.

 She looked out onto the tiny garden. The last of the autumn leaves clung desperately to barren branches or lay scattered on the cracked stepping stones and between tufts of fading wild flowers. Hope was an ally in troubled times, but blind faith was a fool's comfort. It stung when she pressed her freshly tattooed palm against the heavy door and turned the rusty latch. It was dark within the small chamber. Too dark. She stepped into the darkness, her feet carrying her toward the mirror. Her hands found its smooth surface. The coldness soothed the pain. She sighed against the still glass not in despair nor in defeat but in quiet acceptance. There _would_ be other open doors.

 A fractured melody drifted into the chamber on the cool breeze. The elf stirred turning toward the source of the atonal plucking. Out amongst the fallen leaves she spied Loranil, the Dalish she'd recruited in the Exalted Plains, struggling with a sorely out of tune instrument. She closed the heavy wooden door and strode out into the soft earth.

 “The vheres lestun is fickle, isn't it?” Her tone was light despite her murky mood.

 “Inquisitor.” Startled, the young warrior's hand stilled against the gut strings as he made to stand.

 The elder elf waved her hands dismissing the formal gesture and sat beside him on the damp grass. “Please. No titles. Lethallan would be honor enough for me.”

 He nodded in agreement and returned his focus to the stringed instrument in his lap, his fighter's hands awkwardly searching for the proper placement on the narrow fretboard.

 “I never took you for a musician, Loranil.”

 “That's because—” the strings buzzed and squealed as he attempted to strum the chord—“I'm not.” He scoffed at his own ineptitude.

 “May I?” She reached for the instrument.

 “Be my guest, lethallan,” he said willingly handing it over.

 “The vheres lestun makes lovely music but only when properly cared for. Learning to keep it in tune is almost of greater importance than knowing how to make it sing.” She heard herself repeating the words her mother had once spoken to her in another life.

 The younger elf watched her in silence. The thumb of her right hand gently strummed each string as her left slowly turned the petite bone pegs until each tone rang true.

 “Re, sol, ti, mi,” she sang along to the instrument’s peculiar elven sing-song tuning. Satisfied with her work, she smiled passing the instrument back into Loranil's waiting hands.

 Once again Loranil bent his strong fingers awkwardly onto the fretboard and strummed the strings lightly with the pad of a calloused thumb. The sound was much improved.

 “Ma serannas. My mother, she sent this along with her last letter.” The green lines of his vallaslin wrinkled around his smiling eyes. “She says, 'It's never too late to learn.'”

 “Any interesting news from your clan?” She'd nearly forgotten the joy of news from home. News from someone else' home proved a tempting substitute.

 “Yes, actually. The clan is getting on surprisingly well with the shem— the villagers at Red Crossing. I imagine that has something to do with you—a Dalish revered as the herald of their Andraste.” Loranil paused to adjust the vheres lestun in his lap. “Mother says they have invited the clan to spend the winter in town.”

 “That _is_ surprising. Will they accept the invitation?” She snatched a green clover from the browning grass and twirled it in her fingers.

 “Keeper Hawen is hesitant, but it would be a blessing for the young mothers and weak elders.”

 The clatter of boots on stone alerted the elves that they were no longer alone. They turned their heads to see Minaeve bustling along the colonnade her arms piled high with books. She was doubtless headed toward the library for a long evening of study.

 “Can you imagine it? Dalish setting down roots...Without the templars and circles we really have no continue our wandering. Times are changing.” She followed Loranil's gaze as he spoke of the future—his still smiling eyes fixed on the young elven researcher's crop of coppery hair as she passed them by. 

 Mindlessly she began plucking tender leaves from the clover, the fluttering shards of green brilliant against the rough fabric of her skirt. “That may be true...but living along side humans is never without hazard. There is a wisdom in our isolation beyond ancient prejudice. The blood of The People is too easily diluted.” She flicked the barren stem into the grass.

 “Aye,” he replied quietly, his head turned in the opposite direction.

 “She fears her own gifts, but Minaeve is a lovely young lady.”

 “Oh..she is...quite...dedicated,” he said distractedly, his eyes still lingering where Minaeve's slight figure had disappeared behind the rashvine trellis and granite masonry.

 She chuckled softly. “Is _that_ what the young people are calling it now?”

 Loranil shrugged off the tease and turned somberly to the elder elf's grinning face. He set aside the feather-light instrument and swallowed his uncertainty before turning their conversation to a more serious matter.

 “Lethallan...forgive me for asking, but why did you remove your vallaslin? Some of the others here, they say you're ashamed of your birth, that you think yourself too good for your kind. From what I know of you—you proved your loyalty to The People or else I'd not be here now. I know what they say can't be true, but...” He looked to her for answers, for reassurance.

 He was so young, and despite the battles he'd fought and the blood he'd shed he was still an innocent—his gentle brow free of creases, his mind most often troubled by simple things like pretty girls and missing the taste of his mother's cooking. She considered telling him the true origin of the green lines etched on his face, but she knew they meant more to him than hers had ever meant to her. It wasn't her place to steal his comfort.

 “Lethallin, do not doubt I am proud of _our_ people.” She stood and placed a loving hand on his armored shoulder. “Don't let her bare face stop you. Love is the weight of the world, and it won't be denied.” Her words didn't really answer his question, but she knew they were the words he needed to hear—that it would be enough.

 

* * *

 

 Back in the main hall, the low rumble of conversation echoed off the towering walls. Visiting dignitaries sat huddled at the long dinning tables discussing matters of war and peace, who was marrying whom, and what not to wear to the posh soirees in the coming season. The Inquisitor passed them all by, going unnoticed in her new elven-made clothes—perhaps once more mistaken for a simple servant. It had been a long day, and she was grateful when she reached the door to her quarters without being asked for another opinion, favor, or blessing. Her left hand turned the latch, and she passed through the open door for once unconcerned with might await her in her dreams.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the ending I want means one more extra chapter! 
> 
> What did Lavellan have tattooed in her palm?  
> Will Fen'Harel release the old elven gods?  
> Does Solas really shout, “Elven Glory!” when he does it?  
> Discover the answers to these and other all-consuming questions in the next and last exciting installment of “Like Sand Through the Glass”!
> 
> In all seriousness, the last chapter is going to be something special. I've been enjoying writing it and I hope you'll enjoy reading it. It's been a great opportunity for me to get into the lushy-gushy, touchy-feely, artsy-fartsy writing I adore. 
> 
> In case my pronoun/proper noun usage seems weird I've actually been intentionally switching between "the elf," "the Inquisitor," "Lavellan," and "she" throughout this fanfic. Each title denotes a role the protagonist is playing or the mood of the chapter. The more in touch with her true self she becomes the less I use any of the names others know her by. Maybe I'm getting too carried away, but I like the idea of it anyway.
> 
> I'm not super proud of composition of this chapter. I have a hard time getting characters from one environment to another with any measure of grace. I actually left out a scene in the rotunda I really wanted to include mainly for this reason. My SO didn't think this proposed scene was the AMAZING idea I thought it was, so maybe it'll be no great loss. I hope he's not wrong. 8P
> 
> Anyway, thank you very much for reading. I especially appreciated the new comment on the last chapter and continue to welcome all your comments, questions, and criticisms. Come again. Tell your friends. ;)


	12. The Breath on the Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The saga of Lavellan and Solas comes to its conclusion or rather its beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bit:  
> telanadas- nothing is inevitable (according to JoH DLC)
> 
> *I figure the others are old hat by now.

 First she saw them fall, golden petals and silver leaves fluttering through the electric air coming to rest on wet black boughs and her own porcelain skin and fog curled hair. Her warm naked toes dug into the cool blanket of moss as up through the suffocating canopy she searched in vain for flashes of sunlight, the stark sickle of the moon, or a telling strip of blue. This was the fade. There would be no time here—no yesterday, no tomorrow, only this perfect moment. Her sleeping feet carried her through the grove—primal and dark, familiar yet alien.

 It was the white wolf who came to her there, emerging from the haze as if a shade summoned from the ether. She went out to meet the predator empty handed and openhearted, knowing no fear in dreams. As she approached the creature details came slowly into focus; his many shining eyes grew keener. Around the wolf's neck was looped a thorny vine, a collar tethering him to his pain. Patches of dark dry blood marred his snowy coat where the rigid woody spines cut deep into his tender flesh beneath.

 Kneeling in the dark green, shrouding herself in the ancient mist, she extended her hand in compassion—the hand which in the waking world bore the anchor. She didn't feel the bite only saw the flash of tooth, the trickle of thick red down her wrist and forearm, precious sacrificial drops disappearing into the miasma. Her right hand found the jeweled dagger hiding in the pocket of her nightshift. She drew the virgin blade from its gossamer sheath and raised it to his throat—the memory of her blood written face reflected in the clean steely blade. In one fluid motion she severed the vine, unbinding the beast from the source of his torment.

 “Ar lasa mala revas.” She spoke with a mother's quieting comfort, her left hand still trapped in the vise which was wolf's powerful jaws.

 His ire waned; the wolf's grasp softened allowing her injured hand to slip free of his fierce bite. Her bright fresh blood wrote unspoken words across his spectral guise—an ancient poem of gratitude, a forgotten song of parting. Then he left her alone in the emerald mist, his ghostly form slipping seamlessly into the wavering illusion of trunks and nettles, bloom and thorn.

 

* * *

 

 She woke into relative darkness, a sheen of sweat upon her brow and a heaviness upon her heart. For a moment, only a moment, she remembered the grove, the wolf, the sticky warmth of blood. Then she could only remember that she'd forgotten something—something terribly important. Her eyes found a sliver of moonlight peeking in through the high Western windows. There were hours until dawn and more dreams awaiting her.

 Pushing back the sheets and goose down quilt, she swung her legs over the side of the oversized bed. The chill of approaching Winter nipped at her bare feet which hung suspended in air at the end of her petite elven legs. She slid off the side wincing when her feet finally made contact with the cold stones beneath. She wrapped her arms around her body, holding tight to the thin warmth of her white cotton nightshift.

 The fire upon the hearth was low and in need of tending. The rack was brimming with boughs of balsam and chunks of gummy pine. She selected two small, fragrant blocks and tucked them into the coals. Young flames rose up to lap at their splintered edges. Resting her hands against the smooth stone mantle she closed her eyes and dipped her head toward the flame, feeling the delightful heat on her nose and cheeks.

 She watched the flames dance through closed lids trying to remember. There was something—her hidden treasure. Her sleepy hands blindly searched the length of the mantel over her head. She smiled when her fingers found its icy glass surface. Her mother's mirror.

 Carefully she brought the mirror down toward her face. With the fingers of her left hand grasped tightly around the intricate silver handle she looked for herself in the heirloom, the last remnant of Clan Lavellan beyond herself. Instead she found her eyes focusing on the fracture in the glass—cracked in the violence, in the chaos somewhere between the devastation at the conclave and waking in Haven.

 With the pad of her index finger she traced the tiny breach in her reflection as if it was yet another rift she could close with no more than a gesture. The wound wouldn't mend.

 Then there was something else. She removed her fingers and stared quizzically into the reflected darkness. Behind her two shining orbs, two eyes reflecting the warm glow of the firelight, watched her from the top of the stairs. The familiar points of his ears and gentle dome of his head were silhouetted in the starlit window behind him. He _had_ closed the door but only _after_ passing through it.

 “Telanadas,” she whispered against the hard surface, her hot breath momentarily obscuring her vision.

 She just stood there observing through the glass the new cut of his clothes and the fluidity of his movements as he stalked toward her. When he was but an arms length away, she set the mirror back on the mantel amongst the dust and spiders. She didn't turn around. It would be easier not to look at him if she had to say goodbye again.

 “Tell me this isn't a dream,” she didn't quite beg nor did she demand.

“I never dared to dream of this.” His voice broke betraying his otherwise customary calm tone.

 It wasn't quite the answer she sought, but that was his way...and hers. She felt the weight of his hands through the thin fabric on her shoulders, the warmth of his nervous breath against the shell of her ear. Despite the rapid beat of her heart, she would not submit so easily.

 “What of halam'shivasa?”

 He considered her question in silence, the silence of a speaker who thinks about what he says and expects his listener to think about it as well. When he spoke his words were quiet, his meter measured. “Sacrifice is not inherently noble. To walk down one path one must forsake all others—” he raked his fingers through her loose hair “—I could not forsake you, vhenan.”

 It was all she needed to hear, not quite a promise and not really a vow, just an irrefutable truth affirmed. She turned to rest at last in the arms of her love, surprised not to find the hard edge of the jaw bone talisman against her breast. Grains of dark sand fell from his billowing sleeves onto her white shift and pale toes. With a quivering hand he cupped her dewy cheek a pressed a flat lipped kiss to her lips—warm, soft, timid, so unlike himself. It was a first kiss. Looking up into his clear grey eyes, as if for the first time, she was uncertain what she saw there, but something was gone—the guilt, the secret, the burden that had always weighed upon him.

 “Forgive my—” he sighed, an endearing blush coloring his fair cheeks “—I am...unaccustomed.”

 “As am I.” She grinned demurely and pulled at the loose laces on his strange high necked doublet exposing the pure alabaster of his chest, the subtle ripple of his abdomen.

 She felt his curious fingers, warm and electric, slip the loose cap sleeves from her shoulders—felt as the shift fell to her feet, and his eager mouth pressed against the sensitive flesh. His soft kisses fell upon her—long await drops of rain on drought stricken soil—his rough tongue tasting the bitter salt of his love's skin. The dancing light of the hearth cast their long entwined shadows across the ancient stones, the flame's gentle heat a slow burn against her bare calves and thighs. Taking his hand in hers she led her heart to her bed.

 Amid sweet kisses given and received, accepted and returned he dared to enter her, swimming up the sacred waters of her body, returning at last to a comfort he'd never known—coming home to die and be born again in new trembling flesh. They—awkward and hungry—found meaning in the rhythm of the language despite lacking the vocabulary. Their bodies shone in the dark, two hearts beating as one, bondmates without sealing, twin souls without blessing because they needed none. The ancient poetry flowed between them in silence, all too soon ending in the breath that caught, the contented sigh in the night. Their tired limbs laid loving tangled amongst the mingling sweat and tears, the bright blood on the pale sheet.

 

* * *

 

 She woke bathed in morning light a dull, unfamiliar ache in her muscles and a proud mark of love on her smooth décolletage. Fingering the soft purple and vibrant pink, she tested the fresh wound but felt no pain. Her arm reached out for what was hers, but she only found a cold place in her bed, a handful of stained satin. She inhaled sharply. Had he left her again? She sat up scanning the room for proof that he was still there, that he had been there, that it hadn't all been some cruel trick of the fade. Then she saw his distorted figure, washed in pastel light, through the diamond paned glass doors—the sweet comfort of hope quickly replacing the dread.

 Easing herself off the bed, she wrapped her naked body in an oversized fur-lined dressing gown. Her breakfast sat untouched on her desk beside the still hourglass. She rested her hand against the porcelain teacup. It was cold; it was later than she'd thought. It was kind of him to have let her rest. He was always kind. The lilting morning songs of sparrows and larks tempted her out onto the balcony, the hem of the too long robe trailing behind her as she crossed the stony floor.

 He didn't move when she opened the door. He stood tall resting his hands against grey stone balustrade looking out into the illuminated peaks. As she stepped closer she saw them, errant smudges and splatters of dried blue and green paint marring his silken sleeves. He had always been so tidy before.

 “You've been painting,” she cooed sweetly before settling at his side and nuzzling her cheek to his left shoulder.

 “I have.” He wrapped his arm around her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

 “Did you finish?” she asked reveling in the closeness of him—the scent of her perfume and hair oil mingled with clary sage and candle smoke.

 “No. I've only begun...the concept was in need of revision.” Reaching across the weathered stone he covered her right hand with his. He tenderly stroked the dry knuckles, the faded scars from misfired spells, the pale skin so much like his own. Turning her palm up, he immediately noticed the muted green of the tattoo just beneath her skin cradled between her heart and life lines.

 “What's this?” The question came out a whisper more directed toward himself than her. His paint spattered fingers traced over the ancient runescript, as a palmist might, eyes fixed on the seemingly out of place curve. It was almost time but not quite.

 “I got it to remind me—of who I am.”

 The realization came slowly, slower than it would have before. “This—it is your name,” he speculated, the slight error in the characters now making perfect sense.

 She smiled. “Cabot did it for me. It's only ink.”

 He imagined her silently pressing her secret name into the hands of aristocrats and mercenaries alike and decided the tattoo was fitting. Planting a kiss against the fresh mark, his eyes smiled at the irony, the beauty of it. “Aren't you going to ask mine?”

 “I already know who you are, vhenan,” she sighed placing her hand on his broad chest over his steadily beating heart.

 Together they faced the uncertain future bravely, counting birds against risen sun, looking out toward the ever approaching tomorrow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: September 29, 2015 I know my little story is AU now, but I'm leaving these old crazy notes in case anyone is interested in why I went where I did.  
> \-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> That's all folks. This is the ending we deserved instead of staring off into the Frostbacks painfully alone.
> 
> In case it was unclear I'm subscribing to the Solas as spirit mage theory. I was on the fence about it before, but after writing this and thinking over a lot of random banter I'm certain he is a vessel much like Flemeth or Anders. I know it's established that possession/spirit bonding can be undone via some encounter in the fade and/or casting an elaborate spell and burning an offering. I tried to weave some of that into this. I really only saw Solas and Lavellan working out if Solas was no longer willing to be Fen'Harel's vessel. I imagined he would retain any knowledge gained from the joining and any memories acquired while joined, but would revert to some of his old mannerisms and thought processes. I really like the spirit mage idea as it is so similar to the symbiont joining of the Trill in Star Trek Deep Space Nine.
> 
> As I wrote this I really latched onto the idea of Solas and Lavellan as virgins. I didn't plan it at the beginning, but the idea grew more alluring as I pressed on. Solas says he never expected someone to draw his attention from the fade, meaning no one ever had before. The Gheyna and Cammen quest from Origins also made me speculate that Dalish might tend to practice abstinence until “marriage.” There is just something mystical about the idea sharing a first time, particularly with someone who one intends to share one's life with...as if it was fated. Solas and Lavellan deserved something like that.
> 
> Thank you for pushing through to the end. I really appreciate your readership. Any comments or suggestions you offer will be a tremendous help to me in my future writing undertakings. I was afraid writing a fanfic would be a waste of time (mostly because someone who I love and respect had this opinion), but I'm grateful that I decided to give it a go. I learned so much about weaving the threads of a story together and about myself as a writer. I cannot recommend it more highly to anyone suffering from writer's block.
> 
> All the best to you, dear reader.


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